


Slave Brothel of the Fright Zone

by zero_percent_angel



Category: She-Ra and the Princesses of Power (2018)
Genre: Abduction, Classism, Corruption, Cultural Values Explored, Drug Use, F/F, F/M, Fantastic Racism, Flogging, Heavy Angst, Horror, Humiliation, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Interspecies, Life in the Horde, Medical Horror, Misogyny, Non-Consensual Bondage, Rape, Sadism, Scorpia's Parentage, Sexual Slavery, Sexually Transmitted Diseases, Torture, Tragedy, Verbal Abuse, misery porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-22
Updated: 2020-03-07
Packaged: 2021-02-17 22:47:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 18
Words: 60,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21517699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zero_percent_angel/pseuds/zero_percent_angel
Summary: T/W for sexual violence.Set at the end of Season One. Princess Glimmer has been taken after the Princess Prom, and is being held in the Black Garnet chamber by Shadow Weaver. The mission to rescue her has failed. The Princess Alliance is in shambles. No one is coming to Glimmer’s rescue, and her fate is left for Shadow Weaver to decide.In her vast cruelty, the witch of the Horde casts her captive into the Slave Brothel of the Fright Zone, where she is to service the sadistic freaks and outcasts that make up the Evil Horde’s elite. To survive, Glimmer must endure degradation, humiliation, and torture. Can the Princess of Brightmoon hold on to her sanity in the face of such evil, or will she lose herself to the depravity of the Slave Brothel of the Fright Zone?
Relationships: Catra/Glimmer (She-Ra)
Comments: 131
Kudos: 203





	1. Be Happy

**Author's Note:**

> I don’t know what morbid impulse caused me to start writing this, but here we are. It’s hard to ask anyone to enjoy this kind of story, but if one can find some catharsis in this work, then take it.
> 
> I hope the tags and summary have made the content warnings abundantly clear, but I’ll restate it again. Trigger warning for rape and torture.

Prologue - Be Happy

In Brightmoon,

Glimmer cries. It’s deep into the night now, with the daytime bright moon for which her kingdom is named, sunken far below Etheria’s horizon. In the dark of a clearing deep inside the royal gardens, Glimmer is hiding. She is eight years old. In front of her is a stick she planted in the ground. On top of the stick is a bucket with an angry lopsided face drawn across it, and below that, hangs a sign bearing the red wing crest of the Evil Horde drawn by the same naive hand. 

This child’s effigy of a Horde minion stands defiantly, untouched. It’s been that way for hours, ever since Princess Glimmer gave up on trying to destroy it with the ancestral magic of her Kingdom’s Runestone. Glimmer hadn’t given up easily. It began in the morning, when she decided she wanted to start training, so soon she may fight along side her mother and father in the Princess Alliance. They told her she was too young to think about fighting, and so she snuck off into gardens around the palace. She made her dummy then, out of things she found in the groundsman’s shed and told herself she would not leave until she obliterated it. 

Glimmer’s magic was weak; she was still a child after all, but she had seen the way her mother the Queen used the Moonstone’s power, and she knew that somewhere that potential was inside her as well. When at first the waves of elemental light magic did not flow through her, she didn’t fret. She knew her power wouldn’t come easily. That was why wanted to practice. She had to learn somehow, sometime. But the day passed. She missed lunch, and then her dinner. She knew the magic was there; she could feel it. It manifested first as a tingling in the tips of her fingers, small, like a whispered promise. Then the tingling began to hurt, like pins and needles in her hands, then like fire. Her palms burned with pain, as her tiny body strained to summon not enough magic. Glimmer’s hands turned numb, and then she found she couldn’t stand. Her balance failed, and she fell to the ground, and it was only then she realized the day was gone. Before her, the red winged effigy stood triumphant. Glimmer had laughed when she made it; a goofy caricature of the enemy. But now, this soldier of bucket, board, and stick mocks her weakness, and so the Princess weeps. She is a failure.

The bushes beyond the clearing stir, startling Glimmer. She is still weak in the shadow of the Horde. She has no reason to fear; the King of Brightmoon steps forward. “Glimmer,” he sounds exasperated, “Is this where you’ve been all day? The whole Kingdom’s been looking for you.”

Princess Glimmer dabs at the tears on her face. “Dad?”

He kneels in front of her. Without another word, he scoops her up in his arms and holds her close, breathing a deep sigh of relief. “I’m so glad I found you. We’ve been worried to death. We were afraid you were lost, or taken.” He sees that she has been crying, “What happened sweetie? What are you doing out here all alone?”

Glimmer doesn’t need to answer. King Micah sees the Horde effigy, its bucket head, crooked. He understands. “I couldn’t do it,” cries the Princess, “no matter what I did, nothing happened. I can’t do anything.”

King Micah looks long into his daughter’s face, and then wipes away her tears. He smiles, and picks her up, “That’s what this is about. You said you wanted to start training.” He shakes his head. 

“I want to fight with you and Mom and everyone.”

The King’s smile fails. “No, you don’t,” he says, as his thoughts travel to past battles. “No, you don’t.”

“But Dad,” the Princess grabs on to her father’s tunic, and holds him close, “you’re always gone. You’re always away fighting the Horde. What if you don’t come back? I have to be there. I have to save you.” The tears begin again. Glimmer sobs; she convulses and wails against her father’s chest. She wets his tunic with her tears. 

“Glimmer,” he says. She keeps crying, and his voice turns harsh, “Glimmer!” That startles her. She pulls back from her father. His face is stern and so very sad. Princess Glimmer’s breath hitches and she looks like she is about cry again. King Micah smiles. His smile is kind and soothing. “No,” he tells his daughter, “don’t you know why we’re fighting at all?”

“You fight the Horde. They’re evil.”

King Micah smiles. Tears well in his eyes; tears of love, tears of pride. “No,” he answers, “we- I fight so that you don’t have to. The Alliance fights so that you can live in peace. I don’t want you to live crying and angry and afraid. Your mother and I, we gave you your life so you could live it in joy. We fight so that you can be happy. So please, Glimmer don’t cry. Be happy, for my sake. And be happy for yourself. Please.”

Glimmer sniffles and puts on a brave face, “I’ll try.” She breathes unsteadily and finds herself smiling. “Just promise you’ll always come back.”

King Micah smiles in return, “I promise one day the war will be over, and I’ll come home and stay home forever. And you’ll be safe, and I’ll make sure you never cry again.”


	2. No One's Coming

Chapter One - No One’s Coming

In the Fright Zone,

Glimmer screams. She’s tried to teleport again out of Shadow Weaver’s device, and again the energy of the Black Garnet has jammed her magic. She’s eighteen now, wearing the torn dress from the Princess Prom. Her struggle has brought her another burst of pain, but she holds it, willing herself out of the magical bounds for as long as she can, and then she falls limp. The pain ebbs, replaced by exhaustion. 

“Princess, you’re still trying? Your efforts would be admirable, if they weren’t so ultimately foolish. The magic of the Black Garnet runs counter to your magic. You’re powerless here. Give up.”

“Shadow Weaver,” manages Glimmer. Her vision is still blurred, but she can make out the tall red figure, surrounded by swirling darkness. “How long-” Her voice fails, but the Horde witch answers anyway.

“I’ve been here long enough to watch you tire yourself out all over again, little Princess. You are certainly stubborn. You remind me of a student I once had.”

“Don’t you dare say his name.”

Shadow Weaver makes a sound almost like a cat’s purr, then speaks, “I wouldn’t start making demands from your position, if I were you.” Glimmer feels long cold fingers against her face. The unfocused shape of the Horde witch has moved, bent before her now. Competing visions of Shadow Weaver’s crimson mask waver in and out of focus. The witch says, “But fine. I won’t say his name. I will respect this one wish.” Shadow Weaver stands, turns her back to Princess Glimmer. “I think you deserve that bit of kindness before I share with you the bad news from Brightmoon.”

That catches Glimmer’s attention, and for one frozen moment, her world stabilizes into stark panic. Then she asks, “What could be worse than this?”

Shadow Weaver turns. She cannot emote from behind her mask, but Glimmer feels her smiling. So much, Glimmer realizes, could be worse than this. “Do you remember the ultimatum we sent we sent to Brightmoon? The very reason you are captured.” Glimmer’s stomach turns into a pit of lead. “Our demands are simple. The Queen for the Princess. You go free when Angella surrenders herself to the Horde.

“She didn’t.” 

“She didn’t what? Accept our demands, and abandon her Kingdom for you to hold together under the weight of your guilt? No. Rest assured Princess. She didn’t. Or rather, she couldn’t. According to the report I received this evening, Queen Angella was so close to sacrificing herself for worthless little you, but it seems her Court voted to censure her.”

Glimmer swallows, then, “What does that mean?”

“It means no one’s coming for you little Princess. The good of Brightmoon and its immortal experienced Queen outweighs a sparkling brat, whose wings haven’t even grown out yet.” Grey fingers caress Glimmer’s back, and she shudders. When did Shadow Weaver move behind her?

Glimmer grits her teeth and straightens her back, grasping for dignity in her bonds. “I already know that. Brightmoon needs Mom for than I do. It doesn’t matter; my friends are coming.”

Shadow Weaver shakes her head, “Oh no, Glimmer, your friends have already come and gone.”

“I don’t believe you. They wouldn’t leave me here.”

“They had no choice. Adora and the other Princesses,” she sneers the word, “managed to save the boy, and take back the sword,” Shadow Weaver’s voice drops, “I’m still not sure how. But then tragedy struck.” The Horde witch pauses mockingly, and silently Glimmer pleas, not Adora. “Poor Entrapta,” Shadow Weaver finally says, and Glimmer deflates, relieved, and then guilty. Entrapa was, well she was weird. But she was one of them, and now she is gone. At least Bow is safe. 

Shadow Weaver continues, gloating, “The Princess Alliance is in shambles at the loss of one of their own. And Brightmoon is collapsing as the Court turns against a hysterical Queen. No one is coming for you Princess, and so it seems my demands will not be met. All that’s left now, are the consequences.”

“You,” Glimmer’s voice is shaking; she struggles to continue, “you’re just trying to scare me. I don’t believe you.”

“Scare you? Believe what you want for now. The time for fear has not yet begun.”

Glimmer expects Shadow Weaver to leave now, and let her stew in that threat. But she doesn’t. The air crackles with the red lightning of the Black Garnet, as a spell forms around the Horde witch. The consequences are now. Is this death, Glimmer fears. That was the threat, wasn’t it? That was always the threat, always the possibility. Even before Shadow Weaver captured her. All her missions, and her battles she risked her life. She should be prepared for this, but she isn’t. This doesn’t feel real. She can’t believe what happening, even as the dark encloses around her, and energy from the Black Garnet fills her magic starved body. It doesn’t hurt and it finishes quickly.

Glimmer finds herself alive, and free. She’s on her knees on the floor of the Black Garnet chamber, and Shadow Weaver’s device no long binds her. What happened? Glimmer moves her arms, to prove to herself she can.

Shadow Weaver stands before her, and shakily, Glimmer rises to her feet. She doesn’t know what happened, but this could her last only chance. Glimmer charges a teleport, the first half primary magic ability, and then she feels a glitch. She can’t do it; the atoms of her body refuse to dematerialize. “What did you do to me,” she asks the Horde witch. 

Shadow Weaver replies, “A new spell to bind you to my Black Garnet. So long as you stay in range of the Fright Zone your magic is blocked. All this land is your prison now.”

Glimmer’s first thought was to try again, to teleport out of the chamber of the fallen Runestone, or better; to blast Shadow Weaver with all the magic she has left, but she knows that if tries, she will glitch again. She can feel it; Shadow Weaver isn’t lying. Glimmer has lost her powers. A desperate, irrational resolve possesses the Princess of Brightmoon. How dare this vile witch imprison her, threaten her, hurt her, and then then think she can let her go? Glimmer charges; she will fight Shadow Weaver with her bare hands if she has to. She doesn’t get very far. 

Choking tendrils of darkness wraps itself around Princess Glimmer. She feels it crushing her from all directions, while Shadow Weaver seethes above her, her long grey hand poised for a cruel slap. Glimmer braces herself for the blow, but Shadow Weaver’s rage recedes. The witch’s hand, rather than strike her, caresses her cheek, as she muses, “I ought to spare your face for what comes next.”

The dark tendrils let Glimmer go. She doesn’t even think to try fighting again. The dark tone of Shadow Weaver’s voice has paralyzed her. “What comes next,” she asks, defiant but frightened, “are you going to execute me now? Or wait? Send me to Beast Island.” She stutters the name of that distant land of mythical doom.

“Execute you?” Shadow Weaver’s touch on Glimmer’s face turns harsh. She cups her jaw in her palm, “You’re not going to be executed.” She waits for Glimmer to shiver with relief, and then she proceeds, “I imagine a better use for you, Princess.”

“Use?”

The eyes behind Shadow Weaver’s mask squint, and she releases Glimmer’s face. The Princess of Brightmoon droops her head, as the witch explains, “Everything in the Fright Zone has a use. We cannot afford nor do we tolerate the frivolities and luxuries found in the Runestone Kingdoms. So you too, as our property, will have a use, and your use shall be morale.”

“Morale,” Glimmer repeats to herself. She thinks, propaganda? If what Shadow Weaver said about the state of Brightmoon and the Alliance is true, then her imprisonment will make the rebellion look weak and unfocused. She suppose it has been. Despite her best efforts to reignite the Princess Alliance, the Princess Prom had still been the disaster which brought her here. She couldn’t even save herself.

“The Horde has always had problems with morale,” Shadow Weaver explains. 

Bitterly, the Princess mutters, “I can’t imagine why.”

“I’ll tell you why,” the Horde witch glares at Glimmer, and she regrets her words. “Our glorious leader, Lord Hordak was once a soldier in a legion of clones. Mechanized and uniform, they fought and died only for the approval of their creator. They had no knowledge of leisure, so when Lord Hordak conquered the Scorpion Kingdom and began recruiting disaffected peasants to serve as the first hordesmen, neither did he. For years, this problem persisted; Lord Hordak, for all his might and genius couldn’t understand why his soldiers complained so much, and why they grew listless and rebellious as their campaigns dragged on without rest. It was I who finally addressed this problem, and to this day it is my duty to keep the soldiers motivated. And you are going to help me.”

Absurd visions flash through Glimmer’s mind. She would bringing leisure to the Horde? In Brightmoon that meant things like plays and songs, and sweet sparkling cordials. Did Shadow Weaver want to make her some kind of performer?

“Princess,” the low dark voice of the Horde Witch jars Glimmer from her thoughts, “do you know what a brothel is?”

No, was Glimmer’s first thought, but that wasn’t right. She recalled a lesson from one of the tutors in Brightmoon Castle. She was learning of the practices of various beast races who lived outside of the Runestone civilization. Their practices are alien and barbaric, and among them are gathering of females and the selling of sexual access to them. A practice which runs contrary to the teachings of the First Ones, passed down to the Runestone Kingdoms of. The First Ones taught freedom of love, and to that, Shadow Weaver’s Brothel is an abomination. Glimmer paled. 

“We don’t really have a name for it,” Shadow Weaver says, “it’s just the Brothel, or the Slave Brothel. So far it’s been a good use for the Horde’s more attractive, and uncooperative captives. And I think it will be a good fit for you, Princess.” 

Almost jovially, Shadow Weaver taps Glimmer’s nose. The Princess growls, “Now you’re just making fun of me. Not even you would do that to me.” If Glimmer believes that, then why can she barely breathe? 

Shadow Weaver hums coldly. She answers, “Tell yourself that while you can. We leave now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continuation soon.


	3. The Descent into Fright

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains mention of suicidal thoughts.

Chapter 2 - The Descent into Fright

The hydraulic mechanisms present in the walls of the Black Garnet chamber whine and the doors open. Standing at the entrance, waiting, are two faceless troopers of the Horde. Each carries a stun baton strapped to his waist and a shield slung over his back. In unison, they give the Horde salute, and one, Glimmer can’t tell which through their masks, asks, “Madame Sorceress, is the Princess ready?”

Shadow Weaver answers, “She is under my spell now. She will offer no real resistance.”

Before Princess Glimmer has time to breathe, the two soldiers fall upon her. Glimmer’s wrists and ankles are manacled, and she is pulled roughly to her feet. “So this is her,” one of the soldiers says. There is a crackling hitch in his voice, and the mask of his helmet is of an abnormal shape, implying he is something other than human. “What soft flesh she has.” He squeezes her upper arm, “must be all that good food they have in Brightmoon.” He laughs, and Glimmer pulls out of his grip. The Horde trooper lets her go, and leering down at her, he says, “And her pretty little princess dress. It’s all ripped up. Looks about ready to fall off.” The armored hands of the trooper reach for her again. Glimmer wants to run, but can’t. The chain connecting her feet is too short, and now, the other soldier, with a straighter figure, implying humanity, grabs her by the shoulders. All Glimmer can do is look to Shadow Weaver, and hope that she puts a stop to this. 

“Careful,” the Horde witch finally says, “don’t leave any marks.” 

“I won’t,” the soldier says, rubbing Glimmer’s round soft cheek.

The Brightmoon Princess can’t stand it. Indignantly, she hisses, “Hands off, creep.” She lunges at him, in a vague gesture of aggression. What was she trying to do? Head-butt his hand? Bite his fingers? She doesn’t know, and her efforts don’t stop him. Shadow Weaver does. 

“Enough dallying,” she tells her men, “our little Princess is expected.”

The tall (probably) human trooper pushes at Glimmer’s back, and she has to walk or fall. The chain between her manacled ankles barely gives her the freedom of movement to walk half steps, but Shadow Weaver and the Horde troopers allow her to go slow out of the Black Garnet chamber and into a dim hallway, lined with the baroque machining of Horde architecture. This is the first Princess Glimmer sees of the Fright Zone outside of that little cell. She wonders now how vast the Horde capital could be, and the thought strikes her that there may well be slave brothel tucked away somewhere in this foreign hostile land. At such a horrid thought, Glimmer trips on her manacles, and falls.

Princess Glimmer lands on her front, and the cuffs around her wrists bite into her skin. Her escort of Horde Troopers leave her lying there for only a second before they grab her, and start lifting her back to her feet, but they don’t push her on. Ahead, something is happening. Force Captain Catra has appeared. “Shadow Weaver,” her voice stops the Horde witch, and she goes on, “I have something to report. In one of the ventilation tunnels, Force Captain Scorpia and I found-”

Shadow Weaver interrupts, “Not now, Catra. Can’t you see I’m busy?” She gestures to chained Glimmer and the troopers surrounding her. 

Catra and the captive Princess meet each other’s eyes, and then Catra asks, “What you going to do with her,” she sneers, “now that Adora’s not coming back?”

Glimmer can’t hear Shadow Weaver’s answer; the witch whispers it to her former ward. Catra’s tail stiffens, and her ears fall flat against her head. 

Glimmer has always regarded Catra as an enemy, and rightly so. Since the beginning of her campaign to rebuild the Princess Alliance, Catra did everything she could to sabotage her efforts and the efforts of her friends, and it was she who captured her at the Princess Prom, bringing here at all. She couldn’t believe Adora still tried to tell her that Catra still had good in her. That she was just misguided and hurt, and that someday she would around the side of good. But what if Adora was right? If she was, this could be Glimmer’s last chance.

“Catra,” Glimmer shouts, moving as fast as she can with her ankles chained together. She throws herself to her knees in front of the feline Force Captain, and grasps the front of her uniform with her manacled hands. “Catra, you know where she wants to take me. You can’t let her do this; you have to help me. Catra, please. They could rape me there.” No answer. Yet. Glimmer’s voice turns shrill, “Catra, listen. Adora still believes in you. If you ever want her to talk to you again, you can’t let her take me.”

Still nothing. Glimmer takes a deep breath, ready to beg again, but then she catches Catra’s eyes, and her hopes are dashed. Catra doesn’t say a word, but in the look in her eyes, Glimmer reads her thoughts. You ruined my life; you took her away from me, and left me alone with that witch.

There would be no help from Catra. Glimmer’s escorts peel her from Force Captain Catra, and force the Princess to resume her shuffle down the hallway. Shadow Weaver lingers behind. She asks of her former ward, “Would you like to come along? Just for the ride? I could arrange a floozy to fall into your arms.”

Catra makes a half hearted salute, and says, “I’ll give my report later.” 

Shadow Weaver leads the pair of Horde troopers, with Princes Glimmer in tow, out of a creaking rusty gate, and into the open air of the Fright Zone. The Princess of Brightmoon had never before laid eyes this grim metropolis; she had only heard stories and descriptions from Adora. These tales hadn’t prepared her, for this was Adora’s normal, at least before she had come to Brightmoon. There was nothing normal about the Fright Zone. As her escorts push her out onto a steep balcony, Glimmer can’t even tell if it was day or night. The sky is an eerie shade of muddled yellow, blocking out Etheria’s moons, those of night and day alike. Glimmer wonders if this land was always like this, even under the rule of the Scorpion Kingdom, or if this foulness is the result of pollution from the Horde’s reckless use of machinery. Either way, the taint of the Fright Zone permeates the air with a smell like burnt garbage, both smoky and rotten. As it fills Glimmer’s lungs she feels like she can taste it.

The balcony ends in a handrail, and then drops off into nothingness. Where is there to go from here, Glimmer wonders briefly, before a strip of road lifts itself into view. The Fright Zone is a moving city, with all infrastructure made from interlocking modules of machinery. Asymmetrical towers reaching out to each other, handing off pieces themselves, reforming to fit the needs of a living Horde. 

The strip of road arches up to the balcony and stretches down into the foggy depths of the Fright Zone. To it, one of Glimmer’s escorting troopers asks, “Want I should call you a skiff, Madame Sorceress?”

“No,” Shadow Weaver answers, “I expect more wriggling from our prisoner. Call a truck.”

The Horde troopers talk into their communicators, and make arrangements. The efficiency of the Fright Zone’s mechanized infrastructure shows itself immediately. A Horde ground buster pulls up at the balcony, and the handrail drops. Princess Glimmer peers over the edge. If she jumps now will she fly smoothly into the release of death, or will she break upon the jagged edges of the Fright Zone’s brutal architecture, chewed and swallowed slowly. Glimmer’s escorts grab her by the shoulders and it’s too late to think about it now. They throw her into the open door of the ground buster, which slides shut behind her. The inside of the truck is spacious, and like so much of the Horde’s industrial works, is built of plain steel, lacquered black. 

Shadow Weaver gets in the front seat. Glimmer only sees the outline of her hair in the tinted glass separating the wide empty truck bed, from the front. The vehicle has no driver, just a computerized unit around the steering module. It knows where to go, and begins on its path.

The steel walls of the blank truck are cold against Glimmer’s bare skin. She wasn’t wearing much to begin with. Going stag to the Princess Prom, she had wanted her dress to be playfully revealing; she had hoped someone would notice her. Who? Bow? Adora? Honestly, anyone. Princess Glimmer was so tired of being the odd one out. For so long, Bow was her only friend, which she was thankful for. Once she had no friends, but still, Bow had other friends, and she didn’t.

Glimmer has a thought, one she knows isn’t fair to her friends, but she can’t stop it. Is it any wonder she was the only one left behind? No, she whispers to herself, and then with a sudden sob, the crying starts. She weeps steadily, but deeply, a steady stream of tears running down her cheeks. She cries for a long while, and it helps. Even as she knows that at any moment, the Horde ground buster could stop and the doors could open, as long as she’s crying, she’s doing something. 

“Shadow Weaver,” Glimmer says. She’s still crying, but somewhere she finds the strength to speak, and then to shout, “Can you hear me back here, Shadow Weaver? I’m not going to work at your brothel you sick crone. You can’t make me. And you just wait until Mom- I mean Queen Angella hears about this. She’ll raise a whole army and she’ll take you down.”

The side door of the truck opens. Glimmer didn’t even notice the vehicle stop; she was too caught up in her yelling. The sight of Shadow Weaver silences her though. The Horde witch says nothing, gesturing her prisoner out of the ground buster. Glimmer cannot see much beyond the writhing darkness of Shadow Weaver’s silhouette, but she can sense they aren’t alone. This new corner of the Fright Zone bustles raucously with laughter and screams alike. 

Shadow Weaver reaches into the back of the Horde ground buster and Glimmer flees, pressing herself into the farthest corner from the door. “Come now, little Princess,” Shadow Weaver sneers, “we’re here. Don’t leave the eager Hordesmen waiting.”

“Stay away from me,” Glimmer shrieks. She wants to throw something at the witch, but all she has is her gauzy dress. 

Shadow Weaver doesn’t have to ask twice. The inside of the ground buster goes dark, filled by Shadow Weaver’s will. It grasps Glimmer around her waist, and drags her slowly into the open. Vision returns, and the Princess of Brightmoon finds herself propped up upon her feet, and with the manacles around her feet and hands undone. Behind her, the door to the ground buster shuts, and it pulls away by the will of its automated driver. Nothing binds Glimmer now, not chains or walls, but without her magic, she’s just a girl lost in a hostile enemy city. She doesn’t dare run, even as the stares of the Fright Zone’s grimy citizens fall upon her. 

We’re here, Shadow Weaver had said. And where is here? It’s hard to see in this dark pit of the Fright Zone, as interlocking buildings block the already dull sky above. All the light there is, comes from the tall tilted building before them. That’s it, Glimmer thinks, the Slave Brothel of the Fight Zone, marked separate from the other scrap heap structures by a pair of electric lamps mounted on either side of the gaping, asymmetrical front door. Together, they lit the street a consuming lurid red. And in this light, the throng of Horde citizens loitering around the entrance appears bathed in both blood and fire. 

Glimmer was used to seeing the Horde as faceless troopers and mindless assault bots, but this low strip of the Fright Zone displays the living underbelly of the Horde citizenry. Here, there are soldiers without their armor, and Glimmer sees their faces for the first time, gaunt pallid humanoids with dull eyes, numb to atrocity. Mixed with them, are representatives of the Horde civilian population, mostly workers in the Fright Zone’s massive factories. Many of them are hunched or deformed from lifetimes of drudgery. Yet, this is a merry place where those broken under the Horde’s tyranny celebrate what little they can. 

The arrival of Shadow Weaver makes this place merrier still, as her presence inspires cheers and exaggerated Horde salutes. Glimmer would have expected them to snap into line at the sight of Lord Hordak’s second, but the common discipline of the Horde doesn’t seem to apply here. They cheer for Glimmer too, curious about the newcomer. They don’t recognize her as the Princess of Brightmoon, daughter of their most hated enemy, but they are still fascinated by the sparkles which still cling to her hair and dress. “Who’s the new girl,” someone asks. Then someone else barks, “Hey, Shadow Weaver. When you gonna let ‘ave a crack at that?”

The crowd under the red lights threatens to turn into a mob. Glimmer finds herself clinging desperately to Shadow Weaver, the very witch who so cruelly dragged her here.

A shape rising from within the structure’s maw parts the crowd. Timidly, Princess Glimmer peeks out from behind Shadow Weaver’s dress, as a man’s squawking voice calms the crowd. “Down you,” he says, “stop clogging the way to my establishment you loitering street scum.” He isn’t a particularly large or strong looking man, but he does wield a cane, which sends much of the rapt crown fleeing into the dark. 

He finally beats his way through to Shadow Weaver, and presents himself. He’s not a human; he’s obviously a specimen of the beast races, but which one? He has purple skin, and walks on taloned digitigrade feet. He is narrow of features, with a hook nose and long jaw, and dark beady eyes. Most striking, the man creature has wings, purple like his skin, jutting from his back. If Glimmer didn’t know better she would think him a harpy, foul creatures who harassed Brightmoon in the time before the Horde’s rise. But that’s not possible; the harpies are all female species who seduce outsiders to reproduce, and this man was, well, a man. 

The bird man hooks his cane over his arm and drops to a low grateful bow before rising to Shadow Weaver. He could be a harpy, Glimmer reconsiders; he could be a mutation, cast out from his people. It was possible; the Fright Zone was known to take in Etheria’s mutants who otherwise would have lived and died as monsters in the wilderness. 

The bird man chirps, “Madame Sorceress. I am honored by your visit.” 

Shadow Weaver is less formal. “Vultak,” she calls him, “I hope this isn’t a bad time. I brought a present for you.”

Vultak squawks and eagerly answers, “Let me see.” 

Glimmer doesn’t know how tightly she was clinging to Shadow Weaver’s waist, until the witch dematerializes and reforms behind her. Her cold hands grasp Glimmer’s shoulders, and push her forward into the shadow of Vultak. 

The winged freak leans in, inspecting Shadow Weaver’s captive. Glimmer looks away, shivering, and so Vultak catches her under the chin with his cane, and pushes her face to his. Glimmer’s stomach clenches, but she forces herself to meet Vultak’s eyes with a scowl. He takes a moment to lick his lips, and then he throws back his head and laughs. “Shadow Weaver,” he declares, “you didn’t.” 

“Oh, but I did, Vultak.”

“A Princess? For me? What an occasion. Bring her in. Tonight, we celebrate.” Vultak removes the crook of his cane from underneath Glimmer’s chin, and then, with a greedy lunge, he takes her purple hair into his taloned hand. As she screeches in pain, he speaks, “Oh Princess, I shall make you the jewel of my institution. You should be proud, but first you should be ready. I’m sure there are many eager to break you in.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took me longer to finish and post than anticipated. I didn't think it would be so long, but I found that I enjoyed exploring the Fright Zone as a city. And on that subject I would like to thank a user who goes by the name KriegsaffeNo9. It was they who inspired me to look up the original She-Ra series from the 80s, where I found the character Vultak (as well as others to come). The old She-Ra was a fairly silly show, but there were aspects I found compelling. I found the industrial nightmare of the Fright Zone's backgrounds beautifully drawn, and the monstrous henchmen of the Horde portrayed a kind of slapstick body horror that was just surreal. I would not have thought to watch that old show, or appreciate its horror elements (buried of course in plastic absurdity) if not for KriegsaffeNo9's works Adora and Catra and Gloom, as well as The Slime Pit and the Sorceress, both of which I highly recommend.
> 
> As for Vultak, he appeared in an episode called Zoo Story as Hordak's zookeeper, so I thought putting him in charge of the Fright Zone's slave brothel was befitting in a kind of grim way.
> 
> It is the next chapter where things will become graphic. Be forewarned.


	4. PAIN

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> T/W: This chapter contains graphic descriptions of rape, as well as verbal abuse including fat shaming.

Chapter Three - PAIN

“Shadow Weaver,” Princess Glimmer wails with all she has, as the hand of Vultak drags her into the lopsided gate of the Fright Zone’s Slave Brothel. She struggles to wind her wrist out of his grip, while she digs her heels into the slimy ground. Nothing helps; she is swallowed by the red light of the Slave Brothel. So she screams again, “Shadow Weaver, why are you doing this? What do you want? Mom can’t surrender herself; the Kingdom won’t let her. But maybe- Just talk to her. You could still work something out.” They keep going. No one is listening. “Shadow Weaver, please, this won’t accomplish anything. Let me go.”

Glimmer’s screams are drowned by a wave of new noise. This is the inside of the Slave Brothel. So many sounds at once and so many people, it takes Glimmer a moment to realize music is playing. Horde music. It hasn’t occurred to her before that Horde would have music, but there it plays, not from any recognizable instrument, but from a malfunctioning repurposed machine, made to groan and grind in a syncopated cacophony. A crude approximation of the very concept of music, it thumps with the rhythm of a sickly heart, shaking the floorboards under Glimmer’s feet. 

Vultak lets go and Shadow Weaver steadies the Princess as she looks out onto grand foyer of the Slave Brothel. It is dizzying sight of writhing bodies and neon lights. In fright, Glimmer turns from it, and to Shadow Weaver. “What,” the Horde witch gloats, “are going to beg some more? Go ahead. It suits you.”

“I wasn’t begging,” Glimmer can barely hear her own voice over sounds of the Brothel, “I’m just trying to negotiate. What do you want, Shadow Weaver? Why are you doing this?”

“I’m doing this,” answers Shadow Weaver as she stoops to Glimmer’s height, “because you deserve it. You’ve cost me so much more than you know, little Princess. Your father, my wayward protege. Your existence is an indelible reminder of his betrayal. And worse, Adora. You tempted her from my side; my dear Adora who I raised from infancy, and loved like my own daughter. Brightmoon will break by the loss of its Princess, but you it seems have already broken. Oh feisty young Princess of Brightmoon, set on undoing her parents’ defeat. How you’ve vexed me, but no more. And to think, for all I have done to your upstart rebellion, all I truly needed to bring you to your knees, was to threaten your royal chastity.” With a narrowing of Shadow Weaver’s masked eyes, one of her hands slips under Glimmer’s skirt, and cups her labia. 

Shadow Weaver’s touch is cold, and Glimmer recoils with a feeble squeak. The witch laughs.

“Madame Sorceress,” Vultak says. He’s leaning on his cane, and his wings are folded around his shoulders, falling to the ground like a cape of raggedy feathers. “If you’ve finished having your fun with the Princess, how would you like to introduce her to her,” he interrupts his speech an unhealthy throaty coo, “perspective clients?”

Shadow Weaver turns to her brothel keeper, and cocks her veiled face, thinking. “Stop everything,” she answers, after a time, “I want this occasion properly observed. I have an announcement to make.” 

Vultak, the vile whoremonger, traverses the sea of merry Hordesmen to a control panel on the other side of the foyer. He turns a switch, and the music machine ceases its strange symphony. Then the lights come up on the ceiling, and silence and stillness come slowly, reluctantly to the floor. There is no real order to the festivities within the Slave Brothel of the Fright Zone. Clusters of this and that fade into each other; in some spots, tables are set up, where Horde troopers play games of chance with hand written cards, while elsewhere there’s dancing, on podiums and chairs, anything. And yet elsewhere, the crowd is still as death, passed out on top of each other, a result of whatever foul liquids are on tap. 

The attention of the Slave Brothel’s patronage comes slowly, and all of them have the same dullness behind the eyes. It is the dullness of habitual crime, and Princess Glimmer recognizes it across rank and species. Species. So much of the Horde isn’t human. Sea folk of Salineas, and Snakemen standing shoulder with members of beast races Glimmer doesn’t recognize. The Horde has a way of attracting such creatures, as many of them bear ancestral grievances against the human dominated Runestone Kingdoms. 

The chaotic floor of the foyer was not only crowded by soldiers. Glimmer notices for the first time who may be the Slave Brothel’s promised slaves. Her fellow slaves, she dares not think. They are mostly females, or feminine presenting, and like Horde troopers they are made to service, come from many peoples. Among them are some bizarre and sordid sights; a reptilian creature with with lipstick smeared along their lipless mouth; a tentacled cephaloid wrapped around a scar faced soldier; a young human dancer with a festering pock above her lip, a sure sign of untreated infection. 

Princess Glimmer cannot stand this anymore. Against reason, she tries to flee. To where? Out into the filth streaked streets of the Fright Zone’s lowest pit? It didn’t matter. She couldn’t let Shadow Weaver do this to her; she would thrash herself to death like a trapped animal before she would let this place swallow her.

A mad dash toward the exit, and a brief glimpse of the Fright Zone’s iron sky. 

“Not so fast, princess.” The voice of Shadow Weaver is wry and dispassionate, and with it comes consuming black magic. Glimmer feels her body slow and stop, too heavy now to move, as she is dragged backwards towards the Horde Witch.

Glimmer opens her eyes. She’s been moved then bound. A table has been cleared in the foyer of the Slave Brothel, on which Princess Glimmer now kneels. It sits at the center of the busy floor, and the Princess of Brightmoon is chained to it by a coil of Shadow Weaver’s spellcraft wrapped around her neck.

It takes a moment for Glimmer’s hearing to return, and when it does, it comes as a crash of sound; blended voices and Vultak in mid sentence, sounding like a carnival barker “-est and greatest conquest. Snatched from the prestigious and elitist all Princess Prom, our Dark Matron Shadow Weaver has gifted me Glimmer.” 

The crowd jeers, “Liar.” “I don’t believe you.” “Ya really expect us to believe ya got a Princess ‘ere?” “He’s just trying to rook us with a fancy story about the new girl.”

“Doubt me if you wish.” He waves his cane, and dips it to the nape of Glimmer’s neck, and pushes down. Her forehead meets the welded together scrap metal of the tabletop, and her shoulder blades are bared. “The mark of the Moonstone. It can be no other.” 

The pressure of the cane recedes, and Glimmer rises to the sight of wide eyed Horde faces. One of them, a lady soldier, young and muscular, is amazed, “The Princess? The heir to Brightmoon’s throne?”

Vultak hears and answers, “Not anymore. Brightmoon has counted her as an acceptable loss. She belongs to the Horde now, where there are no Princesses; no Queens.” 

A cheer echoes through the Slave Brothel, repeating Vultak’s words, “No Princesses; no Queens.” The words bury Glimmer’s pride.

“That’s right,” the bird man says, “she is a slave now. Just as we all are slaves to the glory of the Horde. And this slave,” Vultak’s cane touches Glimmer’s face, “is a whore.”

Glimmer realizes she hasn’t breathed since Vultak’s barking began. Things are going faint now. She forces down some air into her shaking lungs, and remembers how unreal the prospect of execution seemed not long ago. This feels real. This is real.

Someone asks, “So who gets her?” Then quickly a boy answers, “Me.” Then start the arguments; shouting indistinct and shoving. Do they even want sex with her, Glimmer wonders, because to her they look like cannibals, fighting over who gets to eat her.

Vultak lets the excitement build, before he declares a most debased solution; he declares an auction for Glimmer’s chastity. 

The auction is orchestrated by the Horde whoremonger with glee, and it happens fast, before the Princess’s eyes. 

The Evil Horde doesn’t have money in the sense familiar to the rest of Etheria. By Lord Hordak’s design, the Horde provides for all its citizens equally, as they labor under the lash. But for the purposes of such things as the Slave Brothel’s salacious rewards, soldiers of the Horde use their marks of honor; war medals given out for valor and brutality, to be traded in for worldly pleasures. 

Glimmer watches the bids rise. Ten hard won marks of honor. Twenty five. One hundred marks. Two hundred and fifty. All the way to seven hundred and fifty, which no one can match. And so Glimmer’s first night as a slave to the Horde is declared sold. Her virginity bought with the blood and suffering of her people. 

Before the Princess has a chance to see her purchaser, a darkness falls. It’s not Shadow Weaver; not this time. The Slave Brothel’s guards tie a bag over her head, and her senses blur into a formless cascade of sounds and feelings. Applause, whoops, groping, movement. She’s being moved, again.

She feels cold plates of Horde armor against her bare skin, and arms under her back and thighs. The soldier who bought her is carrying her bridal style, or trying to. He stumbles, and almost drops her. There’s laughter, then, “The Princess is a chunky one.” 

More laughter, and someone answers, “Just fuck the little piggy here, then.”

“Oh,” Glimmer’s soldier barks, “wanna watch, eh?” He adjusts his grip, and keeps on walking.

More goading, “What’re ya shy? Show us those royal goods.”

Here, thinks Glimmer, in public; in front of all these soldiers? She doesn’t want that; she really doesn’t want that, so she stifles the urge to struggle more in the soldier’s arms, and lets him carry her away.

The sound of the jeering crowd fades to relative silence, broken by a loud click, and the creak of rusty hinges. A door?

The winning bidder dumps Glimmer on the floor. The sudden drop makes her scream, but her fall isn’t long, and she lands on something soft. Well, softer than floor. 

Glimmer scrambles to take the bag off her head. She claws under the strings and finally it gives, and she can see. She sees the door she was just brought through shut by a Horde trooper, uniformed but for his missing helmet. He hits a latch, sealing them together inside, then turns around to face the Princess.

“This has gone far enough,” Glimmer covers her bare shoulders with her hands. She sounds serious, but she looks terrified, “You,” she corrects herself, “the Horde can’t do this to me. I am a political prisoner. There is a proper way I’m supposed to be treated, and this is not it. Now let me out of here.”

The Horde trooper smiles wide. He may be listening to her, but he doesn’t answer. He just watches her as he begins to undo his armor. He sheds his gauntlets first, and then his chest plate. Underneath those is his turtlenecked uniform shirt. He pulls that over his head, and then starts on the buckle to his belt. “Did you hear me,” Princess Glimmer demands, holding herself tighter.

“You really are a Princess, aren’t you? Guess old Vultak wasn’t pullin’ my cock after all,” he speaks, and Glimmer notices he’s just a boy, not much older than her. “My lucky day,” he giggles to himself, “I knew I was savin’ all those marks for something good. Lucky day.” 

Just a boy and just a grunt. Not a Force Captain or a hero to the Horde. Shadow Weaver brought her to this place to be thrown to whatever common brute who could get his hands on her. She was lucky a human had the most marks that day. Vultak meant it when he said she wan’t a Princess anymore, and that fact scares her. 

“I’m not going to have sex with you,” Glimmer says, her voice cracking.

The boy trooper looks at her blankly, almost through her. In a way he is; he doesn’t see personhood in her. The Horde never cultivated any morality in him; he knows survival and he knows pleasure.

The soldier loses his boots and drops his trousers. Glimmer doesn’t want to look like she’s cowering, but she is. He squats in front of her, and reaches out. PAIN is tattooed across the knuckles of his right hand in the common Etherian script. He has a lot of marks on his body for someone so young; another tattoo of the red Horde wings on his lean pale belly, a scar across the bridge of his nose, one of his lateral incisors replaced with silver. 

“Don’t touch me,” she slaps his hand away.

“Come now,” he says, “you don’t wanna be gettin’ on my nerves now, Princess. This could be nice.” He puts a knee down beside Glimmer on the bed, except it’s not a bed; it’s just a pad thrown down on the floor, and it’s filthy, and in places, crusty. This whole room is disgusting. Balled up tissues on the floor, abandoned cups of Horde grog, and a foul smell, which Glimmer doesn’t recognize. It’s cum; she smells semen. 

The Horde soldier, who at some point Glimmer started thinking of him as Red Belly for his patriotic tattoo, slides off his shorts and she glimpses his penis. She recoils. It’s hideous; wrinkled, veiny, and huge, though that may be the fault of Glimmer’s naiveté. She’s never seen a man naked before; not her father, not Bow (not that he has a penis, being trans). The free loving free people of Etheria also value privacy. There’s none of that here.

Red Belly tosses his shorts into the corner and turns to Princess Glimmer, now huddled into the corner. He is quick and strong; he lays his hands on Glimmer and rips down the front of her dress, exposing her modest breasts and plump belly. 

Shadow Weaver never intended just to throw Glimmer into prostitution; that would have been humiliation enough. This is rape. This Horde soldier wants to rape her, and she can’t think of anything that could prevent him. She is without her magic, and here in the Fright Zone, Glimmer’s royal privileges are void. Adora, she thinks, Mom, you have to save me now if you’re going to save me at all. 

That spark of hope lends Princess Glimmer a last rush of courage. As Red Belly leans over her   
Glimmer, pulling at what’s left of her clothes, she slaps him across the face. The trooper stops, and touches his cheek. Glimmer hurt him. Good, she thinks, but then she’s scared.

Faster than she can think, Red Belly claps Glimmer’s ear, and her head rings. Then his fist balls into her stomach. Glimmer’s never had her wind knocked out so directly, and it sends her reeling. She smacks the back of her head on the cinderblock wall behind her, and then her soldier falls upon her. He digs at her skin with his nails, and pummels the soft parts of her body. He grabs her by the throat and chokes her, hissing, “I’ll make you regret that, you fat cunt.” Glimmer already does.

He has her now, her back pressed down to the mattress. She’s shaking, but she can’t struggle. Glimmer’s clothes are all ripped off now; she’s just as naked as Red Belly is, looming over her. “Look at that,” he says, and Glimmer feels fingers brush her pubic hair, “you’re sparkly down there too.” Glimmer twitches; he has her in a kind of hold; her arms pinned, the rest of her body pressed under his superior weight. Looking down, she sees his penis again. Fully erect, it’s even bigger. Too big, she thinks; it won’t fit.

With his free hand, Red Belly pries Glimmer’s thighs apart, and she panics. She’s thrashing again, but this time she’s mindful not to provoke him to start beating her. So futile. 

The throbbing head of the Horde boy’s penis pokes Glimmer’s labia. She screams, and he lets her. He prods again, this time with his weight behind his hips. She feels some pressure at her entrance, and then it slips away. Still, Glimmer screams, near mad with fear. Red Belly tries again a couple more times, but he cannot force penetration. He grows frustrated. “What’s wrong with you?” He’s not really asking her, just thinking. 

A finger jabs between the folds of Glimmer’s vagina. That goes in easy enough, but his fingers are cold and the sudden intrusion terrifies her. Red Belly feels around, and unsatisfied, adds another finger. This hurts and it hurts more as he pushes deeper, until his fingers stop at a barrier. “What’s this,” he asks, applying pressure. Glimmer whimpers; he’s found her hymen. “Unbelievable,” he sneers, withdrawing his touch, “Don’t they teach you anything over there in Brightmoon?” He lets her go.

Glimmer thinks for a moment that she has been spared. She sits up, covers her nakedness with her hands, and watches her attacking soldier. “I’m gonna need a better angle.” She shuts her eyes, forcing out a stream of tears.

“Please don’t do this,” Glimmer begs. Her words barely leave her throat, and never reach the red bellied soldier. 

“Here,” Red Belly declares. Under the debris of the filthy cell, he’s found a discarded cushion, as raggedy and crusty as the bedroll. He throws it down in front of Glimmer, and commands, “Bend over this.”

Glimmer shakes her head. She’s afraid of what will happen will happen if she doesn’t, but she can’t do it. So Red Belly forces her. He kneels behind her, gripping the nape of her neck with one hand, while stretching the other across her stomach. He pushes forward, and Glimmer’s body bends. The crusty cushion pushes up against her belly, and her face points down to the floor, where tears pool. “All right, Princess,” Red Belly has taken the tone of an instructor, “hands on the floor, knees apart, arse up.” He adjusts her into something like that position and then adds, “Now relax, or this’ll hurt.” The Horde soldier’s penis prods at the entrance to her vagina again. Still, it won’t go in easily, but now he guides it with one hand, while the other presses down on Glimmer’s neck. With some persistent pressure, it gives. The mouth of Glimmer’s vagina stretches to accommodate his probing phallus, and she reaches a whole new level of pain, humiliation, and despair. And then the head of the penis stops at the barrier of her hymen, and Red Belly leans down until the top of Glimmer’s head rests under his chin. Then he plunges.

Glimmer wails. She screams out all her air, breathes in with a sharp wheeze, and then screams more. It hurts her own ears to scream this loud. Shouldn’t it hurt the ears of the young man on her back? Shouldn’t that be enough to stop him? And why doesn’t anyone come? Surely her screams echo outside this dingy room. Why won’t anyone come, at least to check that she isn’t being murdered? 

Red Belly pumps through the screams, pulling out slowly before jamming himself back in as deep as he can go, each time trying to force more of himself into the wailing Princess. He hits her cervix, and Glimmer feels like she’s been punched in the stomach again. Her strength is failing; she can’t scream anymore. The pain is so intense, she fights to breathe.

Glimmer’s purchaser now has her on all fours, panting and near limp. He sets his hands down on her shoulders and works his way towards a rhythm. The pace he falls into is fast and deep, and he goes at it joyfully. Red Belly is having fun spearing into the Brightmoon Princess, even as she convulses in agony around him.

Something’s wrong, Glimmer thinks, something’s seriously wrong. This is so much worse than she imagined. She expected humiliation, the emotional violation of being taken sexually against her will, to be the worst of it. But it’s the overwhelming physical pain she feels that is shattering her soul. So something has to be profoundly and medically wrong. Intercourse, as it is taught in Brightmoon and the other Runestone Kingdoms, isn’t just a source of physical gratification, but a nourishing spiritual pleasure; a celebration of the universe’s gift of life. For it to hurt like this, then-

“This has to stop.” Glimmer’s voice is weak; hoarse from all the screaming.

“Can’t stop now. Don’t want blue balls.” Red Belly’s pace doesn’t slow, even as he answers.

“You don’t understand. It hurts.”

“It hurts because you’re clenching. Relax, then you’ll enjoy it.”

“You’re killing me.” And Glimmer believes that; she’s afraid he’s mangling her internal organs, and that she’s going to die.

“Nobody ever been fucked to death. So relax.”

What’s left of Glimmer’s voice turns shrill, “I’m bleeding.”

“It’s your first time. You’re gonna bleed a little. So just take it. I’m almost done anyway.”

That feels like a lie. Under such torment, time sticks. It does end eventually though. Red Belly picks up his pace, which elicits a final pained scream from Glimmer. He bucks forward, and loses his balance. He falls forward onto Glimmer, and she flops belly first onto the floor. They land together as Red Belly reaches orgasm, and in a fit of throaty groans, spills his seed. It’s a weird, nasty feeling for the Brightmoon Princess, but at least the pounding has stopped. 

He spends a while deep within Glimmer, and then with a strain, Red Belly pushes himself up, and pulls out. Glimmer thinks she hears a slimy pop when he withdraws, followed by a playful slap on her butt cheek. 

Red Belly doesn’t stay much longer after that. He wipes himself clean with an already used tissue, and then he pees in a pail in the corner. Then Glimmer stops feeling his presence over her. He’s gone.

Glimmer doesn’t die; she lives. She is bleeding though. She touches herself between her legs and inspects her fingers, smeared red and creamy white. Glimmer wants to vomit, but she hasn’t even that much strength. It hurts still, inside. She can’t bring herself to move. So, she lies curled up on her side against the grimy bedroll, clutching her lower abdomen. 

It occurs to her that there is nothing to stop her from becoming pregnant. It occurs to her also that another man could come through that door as soon as now, and take her for another round. And finally, it occurs to her that nothing has really changed. She is still a prisoner of the Horde, and she isn’t going home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was a long time coming. I promised the next chapter would be explicit, and though it took me longer than expected to get to the nasty bits, they're here. 
> 
> Thanksgiving caused a bit of a delay on this chapter, as I spent the holiday among family I love dearly, and who are to never know I write things like this. I can't promise the next chapter will come quicker as I go out for surgery next week (nothing serious), but I do have to say that the two comments I received on the last chapter made me absolutely giddy. I'm new to posting on this site and I haven't written fanfics in years. I nearly forgot how good it feels to receive a little message from someone who's read my story. Thank you so much. Love abounds.


	5. "I want to go home."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Glimmer finds another lost Princess living in bondage in the Fright Zone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The operation was a success. I return.  
> T/W for more abusive language, discussion of rape, and denial of reproductive autonomy.

Chapter Four - “I want to go home.”

The face of surgeon’s lamp hangs from the darkness. One of its many lenses lights up, then the whole of the mechanism whirs, rotating like the turrets of a gatling gun. Another lens ignites sending a too bright beam into Princess Glimmer’s retinas. She is shocked awake, as the light readjusts, and shines downward. 

It takes Glimmer’s eyes some time to focus, and when they do, she can’t see much, just her own body in the light, and beyond that, shadow. Down her skin, she sees rows of bruises and marring. Fingernail scratches across her ribs, and swollen imprints on her breasts and thighs. 

She can’t move, not did she expect to be able to. She is restrained tightly and completely; her wrists manacled over her head. A metal chevron pressed against her face, holding her head down on the cold slab. Her legs strapped into stirrups, and pulled up and apart. 

Glimmer is in pain; she hurts all over. Her surface wounds ache, as does her throat from screaming, but the pain is especially severe at the opening of her vagina, and deeper, like menstrual cramps to the extreme. She remembers why she hurts like this, and shudders. 

The surgical lamp continues to adjust and a face comes into view. Bald, with red skin, and white slit eyes. The sight of this hideous face causes Glimmer to start, but this crimson man creature isn’t looking at her face. He’s studying her body. 

The light shifts again, and finally parks in place, revealing another. Glimmer recognizes this one immediately. It’s Vultak, the Evil Horde’s whoremonger. Grumpily, he sighs, “Looks like her fella got rough with her last night.”

“Rough,” parrots the red creature, “indeed.” His voice is deep, guttural, and mechanically distorted. 

“So what’s the damage?”

“Contusions numerous. Further injury to be assessed.” A red taloned hand comes into the light, holding a shining instrument. It’s a speculum, a fact which becomes very apparent as he inserts it into Glimmer’s vagina and dilates it. The metal is cold, and presses hard against her abused flesh. She cries out.

“She’s awake,” Vultak notes. 

“Has been now, four minutes, forty-one seconds.”

Vultak cocks his head, “Thanks for that, Modulok.” The creature has a name. Modulok. 

After an agonizing inspection, the pressure from the speculum lessens and then the device is removed. “Vaginal fissures detected. Most negligible; others not. Cervix bruised. Hymen condition indicates recent rupture.”

Vultak squawks, “Ya telling me, the Brightmoon brat was a virgin?”

Modulok leans forward, and from the shadows comes another face. This one is also red, but with green eyes, and a sly smile. It takes Glimmer a moment to realize this one’s neck joins to the same body as the other. It is another part of Modulok, and from his other mouth, he asks in a different, reedier voice, “Did Vultak want the Princess’s maidenhood for himself?”

Vultak pushes the second head back into the darkness, “I make a point of not playing my own stock.”

The green eyed head snakes back into sight, “Is that so? How does Vultak stand it? Surrounded by such opportunity every day of his life?”

Vultak puts up his cane to shield his face; he isn’t fond of Modulok’s second head. “Been at this game too long,” he answers, “I see what the Slave Brothel does to people. Watch them fuck their brains out; the stock and the soldiers both. Hedonism will kill ya just as fast as the enemy. For troopers that don’t matter; they gonna die soon anyways. But not me. Shadow Weaver gave me this cushy job so’s I can survive, and let me tell you, I will. Besides,” He puts down his cane and puffs out his chest, “what would the wife think?”

The second head sneers, “Vultak has a wife? What a louse he is.”

“A wife,” boasts the Horde whoremonger, “and a daughter too. Who knows, maybe after my nice long life is up, she can take over this place, and live nice easy life too.”

“Or maybe,” the second head hisses, “you’ll lose Shadow Weaver’s fickle favor, and it will your child laying on my slab, like this.” He looks to Glimmer, who shuts her eyes, terrified by the thing with two heads.

With a squawk, Vultak brandishes his cane, “You watch your smart mouth, Modulok.” 

Modulok’s first head interrupts, “Bicker another time. Semen deposits detected.”

The whoremonger rolls his eyes, “And of course the lad busted inside her.”

Modulok’s sly green eyed head hisses, “And why is that Vultak’s problem?”

“Shadow Weaver told me specifically that she wants to wait until the Princess is broken before breeding her. And by the looks of her now, she still got some fight.”

“Breed her,” sings the second head, “what a fascinating proposition.”

Vultak cracks a smile, “Old Shadow Weaver said she wants a legitimate heir to the throne of Brightmoon, raised to serve the Horde. Imagine that.”

“But what to breed Princess with?”

“A fun question. I was thinking a snakeman. Those pompous humans in the Princess Alliance would shit tacks.”

“Modulok can think of something better than that.”

“Oh?”

The second head of Modulok smiles wide, showing his mouth to be lined with rows of sharp white teeth, “Modulok.”

Vultak and the second head of Modulok share a merry chuckle, while the first head with the white slit eyes loads a cartridge into his syringe gun. He puts it to Glimmer’s inner thigh and it bites. She mewls softly, mostly from the surprise; the pain is mild. Modulok’s first head states, “Solution obvious. Sub-dermal long term hormonal contraception administered. In case of developing pregnancy, abortion to be induced.” 

Vultak snorts, “I hate having the stock scraped. The way cry about it. Bleh. And ya know they just trying to guilt ya for time off. Speaking of which,” he drops his hand on Glimmer’s knee, “can she work?”

Modulok’s first head considers then answers, “Prospect dubious. Estimated pain severe. Risk of infection high. Recommendation: bath, food, sleep.”

“Shame. Ya should ‘ave seen her last night. She drove the troops wild, being a Princess and all. And Shadow Weaver; I swear the old bitch almost looked happy. Least I think. Ya know, the mask? What if ya hit Princess here with a stimpack? Be she could go again after that.”

Modulok answers quickly, “Improper use of stimpacks,” the he repeats himself, “Recommendation: bath, food, sleep.”

“Then are we done here?”

“Done.” The lights go up, and the straps and stirrups holding Glimmer in place let her go. She slides off the slab, and touches down on the floor, landing on her knees. In the illuminated operating theatre of Modulok, she sees the crimson surgeon fully. Along with his two heads, he possesses four arms, and six legs. His extra extremities crowd each other on his torso. True to his name, each part of him seems to be its own module, made of flesh, but attached to his trunk by robotic connectors. He is beyond hideous. Glimmer vomits on the floor.

Vultak chuffs, “I’m not cleaning that up.” 

The heads of Modulok stare at him, blankly. 

From under his wing, Vultak produces a fuzzy bathrobe and throws it over Glimmer’s shoulders. The material is thick and relatively soft, though stained, like everything else in the Fright Zone. She holds it close to her skin, and uses the edges to mop up some of her tears. She has been weeping for some time now. “Well Princess,” Vultak says, “ya heard the doctor. Doctors? Doctor. Let’s go home.”

“Home,” Glimmer rasps, turning her head to the whoremonger. 

“Your new home, of course.”

Glimmer tiredly nods, unsure of what that means. She has some guesses.

“Can ya get up on your own?”

Why should she, Glimmer thinks, and then she notices the shadow of the ten limbed, two headed freak. She tries to stand. She puts weight down on one leg, and the pain in her lower abdomen pulses; it feels like a knife in her gut. Glimmer shrieks, and almost falls, but Vultak lays his claws on her shoulders, steadying her with force. “Careful now, Princess. Don’t make me carry you.” He pushes her along, and slowly, painfully, she limps towards the exit of the operating theatre.

Modulok’s second head speaks, and the grim march halts. “Goodbye, Princess Glimmer. Modulok is sure he will see her again soon.” Glimmer glances one last time at the many limbed beast; his second head has spun a whole one hundred and eighty degrees to watch her leave. Pressure from Vultak’s hands return, and she starts walking again. 

Outside, Glimmer realizes she is far from the Slave Brothel of the Fright Zone. She has no memory of how she came the estate and offices of Modulok; she does remember the night before; her rape at the hands of that lucky, as he called himself, Horde trooper, and after too. A long lonely night, paralyzed by pain and trauma; she had to have blacked out at some point. She can’t imagine that she fell asleep.

Vultak’s personal vehicle is parked across the street, and Glimmer is forced to cross it barefoot. It’s greasy with the fuels and lubricants leaked from shoddy Horde machinery; and it’s busy; the Fright Zone’s wretched citizens stare as the near naked girl is shoved along by the city’s appointed whoremonger. Not the worst humiliation she has suffered here.

Vultak pushes Glimmer into the back seat of his shiny black automobile, and takes her to her new home; back to the Slave Brothel of the Fright Zone. Though the sky is the same blank haze it always is, it is day now; down time for the Brothel. The red lamps at the entrance aren’t off, but they’re dimmed, and there’s no eager crowd waiting for their turn inside. Vultak pushes Glimmer towards the same grand entrance he dragged her through the night before, and she freezes. “Princess,” Vultak, whispers impatiently. Glimmer remembers some discussion about a bath, and on that hope she pushes herself forward. 

Inside, the Slave Brothel’s foyer looks smaller than she remembers it. The music machine is off, but some of the neon lights are still on. Two stand out to Glimmer; one that says ‘HOOCH’ which is a word she doesn’t recognize, and another saying ‘SEX.’ One of the letters spelling the word sex is transcribed backwards. 

Vultak takes Glimmer beyond the foyer, and deeper into his Brothel, where its dim corridors wind. Along the way, they pass by many doors to many rooms. Glimmer wonders in which one of these rooms she was violated the night before. 

They come to a tiled doorway, and Vultak lets her go. It’s labeled simply, ‘Wash.’ “Go ahead,” the whoremonger says, “I’ve lost enough time today on you already.” Glimmer nods, and Vultak begins to leave. Before he goes, he leaves Glimmer with some advice, “I meant it when I said ya drove the troops wild last night. Ya could be big here. If ya play nice, that is.” 

He’s gone, and cautiously, Glimmer limps into the washroom and explores. She feels she was promised a bath, but sees no tubs, only faucets spaced on the walls. They’re showers, but there are no showers in Brightmoon castle, opulent citadel of luxurious baths decorative waterfalls, so Glimmer stares into the tiled chamber, unsure. She stands there so long, someone comes in behind her, a cephloid she realizes after a brush by slimy tentacles startles her. 

The cephaloid, a slender green female glances back at Glimmer, but not for long. Glimmer can’t help but stare; at how her nipples are shaped like suction cups, at how she has gills crossing her thin waist. She pays no attention to Glimmer in return. Rather, she turns on one of the faucets, which coughs out a slurry of rust before a stream of water. As the cephaloid creature washes herself, filaments and membranes stick out from her gills, and lap at the trickling water.

It isn’t like Glimmer has never seen a humanoid like her before. During her diplomatic visit to Salineas, she saw tribes of such merfolk living on the coasts the seafaring Kingdom. Non-human peoples inhabit the wilderness of most (if not all) of the human dominated Runestone Kingdoms. Brightmoon’s own Whispering Woods is home to the nomadic Fauns. Glimmer wonders if this individual, obviously property of the Fright Zone’s Slave Brothel had been abducted the marauding Horde, or if she came here willingly, in search of something beyond the briny tides of Salineas. 

Suitably drenched, the cephloid woman shuts off the faucet, and notices Glimmer staring at her. She directs an open mouthed hiss the princess, as her tentacles writhe for effect. Glimmer, as expected, starts, and her fellow slave leaves, still sopping wet, and Glimmer is alone. 

A shower, Glimmer thinks, Adora described them. Not a bath, but it’s something. Under one of the faucets, she notices black grout on the floor; mold. Has this place ever been cleaned? Whatever. Following the lead of the enslaved cephloid, Glimmer waits for the shower head to finish spitting rust before stepping under. It’s a shock. The water pressure is almost painfully high, and though it’s not freezing cold, it carries only the promise of warmth, unfulfilled. And worse; there’s a caustic smell in the mist, indicating the water is cut with harsh antiseptics. The rushing water burns her wounds, but the stinging pain also feels clean. Glimmer allows herself to drench under the showerhead, until her hair is slicked back against her head, and the astringent liquid seeps into her ravaged vagina. She even swishes some around in her mouth. That’s a mistake. She can’t get the taste out of her mouth, and now she’s lightheaded from breathing in the mist. 

Stumbling, Glimmer shuts off the water, and immediately suffers a chill. There’s some towels, unfolded, damp, and some as moldy as the grout. They dry her some, but still, she’s cold, and all she has to wear is that tattered robe, not warm enough. 

In the hallway, Glimmer, shivering, notices a couch pushed against the wall. So weak, she collapses on it, and fades out. 

“Hello. Sweetie? Honey?” Someone’s talking, but their voice sounds like it’s coming from under water. Glimmer doesn’t answer; it’s not like she can. A sharp touch takes hold of the Brightmoon Princess, and there’s a moment of fear, before she sinks into weakness again.

Unconsciousness follows for a long restless while. So cold, she feels but doesn’t think; like’s she been encased alive in a sheet of ice. And then the cutting cold subsides. It’s slow, but in time a meager comfort pulls Glimmer up from what has felt like creeping doom.

Bound again, Glimmer thinks, as she comes to. She isn’t surprised, not does she need any time to remember where she is; she knows now. 

“Are you awake? Can you hear me?” That voice again, no longer muffled, and now with a face. A woman; middle aged, jet black hair, beautiful. Her eyes shine kind, but Glimmer won’t trust her. This is the Fright Zone, where people are less than animals; the land of monsters. 

Glimmer focuses her eyes on the beautiful woman, who takes that as an answer that Glimmer can hear. She smiles, relieved. She’s large; Glimmer notices that as she moves. An enormous woman, well over six feet tall, and broad shouldered, accentuated by her robe of fine silk, hemmed barely above her breasts, leaving her defined clavicles bare. A magnificent, mature beauty.

Glimmer stirs, still afraid this unfamiliar female is one of Shadow Weaver’s torturing flunkies. “Don’t move,” the big lady says. It’s not a demand, but it is a strong suggestion. Yet, as Glimmer stirs, she finds her bindings aren’t so tight this time around; just a cocoon of blankets. She frees a hand, and a vice grip takes it. Horrible, a huge articulated claw grasping her soft human hand. Painfully, she wrenches her hand free, and cowers.

“I’m sorry,” the large woman says. That claw is her hand, Glimmer realizes; both her hands are claws. She’s a scorpioni; of course she is, Glimmer scolds herself. Before there was a Horde or a Fright Zone, this land was the Scorpion Kingdom; the only non-human nation to have been bestowed a Runestone by the First Ones. The traitor kingdom, which betrayed all Etheria to Lord Hordak, paving the way to this unending war. Glimmer hadn’t thought a scorpioni could be beautiful. 

The clawed lady continues, “I didn’t mean to startle you, or hurt you.” Glimmer answers with a stare. “I found you out in the hallway. You weren’t moving. Your lips were blue. So I brought you here-”

Glimmer finally speaks, “Here?” She’s lying on another crusty bed mat, in another small smelly room. “Is this your room?”

The scorpioni nods patiently smiling and then corrects her, “Are you new here? I don’t think I’ve seen you around before. People aren’t supposed to own things in the Fright Zone. But yes, I’m usually the one to use this room.”

“Use it for what?” Glimmer covers her mouth; that’s a dumb question. This woman is another slave whore. “Sorry.”

“No, no, no. Don’t worry about me.” The way this scorpioni woman speaks to her, reminds Glimmer of her mother, Queen Angella. Remembering her hurts, but this woman makes remembering hurt sweetly. “What happened to you?” A pause, then, “Now I’m sorry. I really shouldn’t have asked that. Was last night your first here? Was it your first- your first?”

Glimmer holds her blanket cocoon closer. “Yes,” it hurts so much to speak, “it was my first everything.”

“Your voice is raspy. It must have you screaming last night. I’ve never heard anyone scream like that. Even me, when they first brought me here.” The easy neutral way the scorpioni says that last part unnerves Glimmer like nothing else yet in the Fright Zone. She wonders how long she’s been here. Based on her age, it could be more than twenty years. That’s twenty long years of rapes, of beatings, of gynecological examinations under Modulok’s leering second head. 

A new wave of shivers turns into shakes. Convulsions, full panic. “More blankets,” the scorpioni, says, and then, with her claws, she throws another layer over Glimmer, and when she doesn’t stop shaking, she lays herself down, and holds Glimmer, tiny in her strong clawed arms. “It’s okay. I got you. I got you.” Somehow, that is soothing, and the shaking stops. 

To the girl in her arms, the scorpioni introduces herself, finally, “I’m Eurypteri, by the way.”

“Yoor-ip-ta-”

“You can just call me Teri, if you want. I know Eurypteri is kind of a mouth full.”

“Eurypteri,” Glimmer says plainly and politely, “I’m-” What was there to say about herself now?

Eurypteri understands, “You can say your name. It’s not like they can take away your name.”

“Princess Glimmer.”

“Oh, and you were a Princess. I was a Princess too.” Were. Was. 

“Yeah, I was.” Glimmer makes herself sit up, yet she still clings to Eurypteri’s raggedy blankets. 

“You’re probably hungry. I bet you haven’t eaten since before you came here.”

That’s a good point. Glimmer last remembers eating at the Princess Prom, wolfing down hors d’oeuvres to ease her nervous suspicion that Bow was having a better night with Perfuma than he would have had with her. If only she hadn’t been so distracted by childish jealousy. It’s her own fault that’s she’s here, crying and bleeding in the claws of a traitorous scorpioni. What did the Horde trooper who raped her call her again? A cunt. No, a fat cunt. She is a fat cunt.

“Here,” Eurypteri holds out a claw, and Glimmer returns to the present. She hadn’t noticed leaving it. How frightful; to be attacked by one’s own thoughts. Eurypteri shakes her claw, “Come on. Take it. It’s food.”

It’s an oblong bar in an opened foil wrapping. Glimmer takes it anyway, and after another look, asks, “What kind of food?”

The large scorpioni woman nods and smiles again (a nervous tic?), answering, “You have a lot to learn here. In the Fright Zone there aren’t really types of food.” What a dismal prospect. But still, it’s food and Glimmer does tend to eat under stress. What worse stress is there than this? She eats, learning Horde ration bars have no flavor; a disappointment and a relief. A couple bites in, and Glimmer discovers the one virtue Horde ration bars have as food, and that’s nutrient density. She eats fast, and with just the one bar she is full. She decides this is the most dear food she has ever tasted, even though it had no taste. 

“Thank you,” she says to Eurypteri, and she means it. Euryprteri smiles and nods; she is so beautiful. Not a traitor. That was an unkind thought. Perhaps, she finds herself musing, if her ancestors had respected the Scorpion Kingdom more, then they may not have bowed to Hordak. And also, she thinks, who cares about ancestors? The once Princess Eurypteri must have done something against the Horde to be sent here. She isn’t something to be feared. No more than the red bellied solider from the night before was to be trusted. 

Glimmer feels tears well; she feels compelled to tell Eurypteri something personal. A simple truth, “I want to go home.”

Chitinous claws wrap around Glimmers back and pull her close; she lets them, letting her tears fall into the the scorpioni’s robes. “I used to want to go home, but not anymore.”

“Really?”

“I still have memories of a good life. The Princess of the Scorpion Kingdom, who had a wife, and the most precious daughter. But that’s all gone now, and that person I was, is dead. At peace too, I think. I’m not dead, but I will be someday. A person’s life isn’t so long. Here in the Slave Brothel of the Fright Zone, I have Horde grog and lovers, many distinct and passionate lovers. They make they days go by for me. And they will for you too.”

Glimmer holds tight. “Thank you,” she says again, but she doesn’t mean it. And she wont cry again, even though she wants to. She won’t let herself become like her. Glimmer must escape.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My choice of which of Scorpia's moms (only shown in that framed picture) to make the previous Princess of the Scorpion Kingdom was fairly arbitrary. In the end I chose the bigger of the two, thinking perhaps Scorpia's exceptional size is what defines her royal bloodline. 
> 
> Also, take note of the new tags. My plans for this story have expanded. F/F stuff to come as well as Catra's return and some relevant revelations about her. And then, perhaps through her, the beginning of the hard road to salvation?


	6. Foolish Precious Worthless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Why didn't Mantenna make it into the new show? He was in like every episode of original series.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No new trigger warnings for this chapter. But the previous ones remain; non-con, torture, verbal abuse. I mention disease again in this chapter. To play it safe, I'll start adding that one too. So discussion of disease.  
> I want to be thorough with my trigger warnings. A horror story this may be, my worst fear with this fic is to check it one morning to find that I've seriously upset someone.

Chapter Five - Foolish Precious Worthless

There was so much to learn in the Slave Brothel of the Fright Zone. To begin, bathing isn’t to be taken leisurely. The harsh Brothel showers are designed to offer complete disinfection in seconds. Any longer under the faucet is dangerous, as Glimmer now knows. Avoiding it is dangerous too; that’s an observation. The slaves who forgo the unpleasant antiseptic dousings are the ones walking around with discolored sores and hacking coughs. This whole place is health hazard; if an epidemic ever sweeps the Fright Zone, the Slave Brothel will be to blame. Glimmer’s sure of that. Now wouldn’t that be something; the Horde brought low by Shadow Weaver’s insistence that the Horde army should know fun. And it would all be that witch’s fault. Lord Hordak would roll her head for that. Only in Glimmer’s fantasies. 

Food was another lesson. The ration bar is the only available food Glimmer’s seen in the Fright Zone, and its lacking flavor and texture both slimy and mealy grow old fast. And yet, it is always available, with all slaves receiving a set ration based off their weight and species. It is not a perfect system, with the strong commonly stealing food from the weak, but as the propaganda posters found all through the Fright Zone, including the Slave Brothel, were fond of saying, ‘There is No Hunger in the Horde.’ A promise, as far as Glimmer could tell, kept. And a meaningful one for the beastraces and delinquent peasants who make up the Horde. Could the same be said about Brightmoon? Glimmer didn’t even know. The palace chefs fed her anything and everything she wanted at home, and when she went into the Whispering Woods to frolic with the fauns, she gladly traded her Princess’s allowance for what little the forest nomads had, believing herself generous, and never wondering if it was enough. 

Glimmer’s greatest lesson though had to do with work. In how little is to be done in the Slave Brothel of the Fright Zone. Most of the time there is nothing to do but wait for the scrap of evening when Horde citizens are allowed to play. Then the party starts, violently often, and then it burns itself out at curfew. And yes, it is a party. Glimmer had thought there was no such thing in the Fright Zone, as Adora hadn’t known the meaning of the word. But the Horde does have parties, and like everything else the Horde touches, its parties are defiled perversions of the concept. Of course Adora didn’t know about them; she was Shadow Weaver’s beloved favorite. The old witch kept her safe from this abattoir of lust. 

The night’s festivities take place in the grand foyer of the Slave Brothel; where Glimmer’s cruel auction once took place. Shameful events like that take place there every night; from orgies to duels. Princess Eurypteri implied there had been an execution; Glimmer doesn’t want to know for sure. There was nothing motivating Glimmer or any of the other slaves to attend the foyer, or as most called it, the Floor. Not promise of pay; that’s what made them slaves not sex workers. That, and the fact that none of them can leave. But so many flock to the Floor every night. One can survive, hiding in one of the back rooms, but is that living? Not to most slaves who’ve lived there for any considerable time, and not to Princess Glimmer, with escape on her mind. 

The Brightmoon Princess isn’t sure if Eurypteri is trustworthy. She is kind; Glimmer’s first friend since her enslavement, but she also far gone into the Fright Zone’s madness. So Glimmer keeps her sole desperate desire to herself as she learns the basics of life as a Horde slave whore. Like how to procure contraband from beyond the Brothel’s walls; make a friend. Not a lover, those come and go, but make a free Hordesman attached; make them come back. If she had one of those, Glimmer thinks, she could smuggle a message out of the Fright Zone; maybe to Adora, who has her sword back. No Princess left behind.

To make a friend, one has to work the Floor, and that’s dangerous. The Fright Zone citizens who earn the privilege to visit the Slave Brothel are the worst of the Horde. They could hurt her; one already had, and Glimmer was still healing, even days and days later. And there is another risk; that of liking the Floor. Hooch, as it is written in neon, is slang for the Horde’s grog, a syrupy intoxicant greatly recommended by the likes of Princess Eurypteri, and always on tap on the Floor. It can ease the pain, even turn it into pleasure; make the writhing nights in the Slave Brothel slip away into ecstasy. Let that happen, or worse, let that become a habit, and then Glimmer’s hopes will truly be lost. 

She has to take the risk though. She has rested long enough; or rather, she can’t rest anymore. The empty hours in the Slave Brothel of the Fright Zone are their own kind of torture. The nightmares, the shame. That is when the collective trauma bares down on her; in those long blank days. 

It will be tonight, Glimmer tells herself. She’s afraid to leave the winding back halls of the Slave Brothel, but she’s more afraid to spend another night wondering if she is ever going to be free from this wicked place as she fades in and out of dreams of him. That thought is what finally fixes her resolve to go. Her dreams here and now feel so real, like the rape is still happening, like it never stopped. So what is there really more to lose on the Floor?

Glimmer dresses. There isn’t much to wear in the Slave Brothel of the Fright Zone, just a pile of the same recycled costumes. From it, Glimmer doesn’t wear much, and though it taxes her to reveal so much of her vulnerable flesh to the Horde brutes, she remembers some more advice from Princess Eurypteri; that her body is all the leverage she has left. So to escape she has to use sexual allure. Glimmer never thought of herself as particularly pretty, but as Vultak told her, she is a Princess, an exciting prospect to the Horde’s soldiers. She can be big here, he said. Big enough to hold sway over the Hordesmen she fears now so much? She will have to see.

Short vinyl skirt, matching vinyl bustier, kitten heels (a little too tight on her feet), and because it makes her just a little safer, a spiked choker. In a cracked mirror, Glimmer smears black paint over her eyes and lips, then steps back. She finds herself enticing and dangerously sexy. On the Floor, where lust and cruelty are unbound, she will be noticed, and may not be safe. But still, there is a part of her that is excited to be seen looking like this. She never imagined she could be this gorgeous; even at the Princess Prom she felt like a short frump, but now she wants to reach into the mirror and make love to the girl on the other side. 

Discipline, she tells herself. Use this, but control it too. Don’t lose yourself, like they did.

The Floor of the Slave Brothel is packed with people when Glimmer arrives. She’s late; the night’s decadence is already well under way. The music machine thumps, and the neon lights clash in the Horde’s colors, red and green and purple. 

Glimmer stands there, on the edge of the Floor, realizing that she doesn’t know what to do next. She’s never seduced anyone before. Is she supposed to just walk up to someone and offer to take them into one of the back rooms? Then what? Just wait to get jumped on? She will have to try to find out. Glimmer struggles to find anyone to approach. Maybe if she came earlier in the night, that would be easier, but most of the Horde patrons appear to have already grouped up. She keeps looking, trying to ignore nasty goings on. She can’t, of course.

In one corner, an androgynous slave with heavy make up and glitter across their smooth bare chest kneels before a Horde trooper, fellating him in plain sight. More toward the center of the Floor, a lone woman kneels in a cage while a circle of Hordesmen masturbate around her. Closer to Glimmer, one of the walls is open, revealing a wide telescreen built behind it. On it plays footage from the front lines. Like news, Glimmer thinks, but there’s nothing to learn of her friends and family back home. All that plays are detached gory details of the war. Houses burning, civilians fleeing. There’s film of a Brightmoon knight tied to the back of a ground buster and dragged to death for the amusement of her captors. Glimmer looks away, and down into the audience. There’s a few lone Hordesmen there, watching. Maybe the Horde has wallflowers too, and maybe one of them wants company. 

Glimmer takes a half step forward, and realizes she is shaking. Get this over with, she tells herself, and don’t end up in that cage. A little awkward on her kitten heels, Glimmer makes a lap, scanning the audience, sitting on barstools adjacent to the telescreen. Not all of them are alone; there’s a couple, both troopers, holding hands as they watch the gore, but most are indeed alone. So which one to approach? Glimmer’s attention snaps to a Force Captain’s badge, an obvious sign of an outside friend worth having. She begins towards it, and then she sees its owner. Her pace slows. What even is that creature? Definitely not a human, but not sharing any recognizable features with any beast race. It? No, he. Glimmer forces herself to see the thing as a person; a man. He a lanky creature, humanoid in shape, though his pelvis sprouts four legs with two toes each, and that head. Small; Glimmer wonders how an intellect necessary to become a Force Captain can fit in such a weirdly shaped head. No, the creature’s head is mostly huge yellow eyes, surrounded by red fin-like ears. Then there’s the creature’s mouth, which is circular with a tusk protruding from each side. Glimmer is disgusted just looking at him; the thought of touching him is unbearable. 

This is a mistake, she thinks for a second, and she wants to turn and run back into the back hallways of the Slave Brothel, but she holds fast to her courage and goes on, telling herself, there are no other Force Captains sitting by themselves. This chance is too perfect to give up. 

“Hey there,” her voice cracks; she imagined herself sounding more seductive.

Still, the red faced creature with the huge yellow eyes turns around. He sees Glimmer and makes a cooing sound; he likes what he sees, and he makes that clear with a sudden disgusting show. His eyes bulge out of his head on stalks, which reach out to leer better over Glimmer. She recoils, and the creature speaks, “Very sorry. Did not mean to scare. You are very pretty is all.” His voice is not what she expected; high and squeaky, and he sings everything he says.

The Brightmoon Princess forces a coy smile, and begins, “I’m-”

“I know who you are. Was there for your auction; very fun exciting show.”

Glimmer wants to cry, but instead she asks, “Anybody sitting there.” She indicates the stool next to him.

The creature’s eyes fling back into his head and light up, “Please, please, sit.”

“So what’s your name?”

“I am Mantenna. Force Captain Mantenna of Hordak’s glorious Horde.”

Glimmer acts surprised, “A Force Captain, huh? You must be really strong.” 

The round mouth of Mantenna makes something like a smile, as he boasts, “My eyes see all. Very powerful.”

Glimmer acts impressed, then finds herself wanting for something else to say. During the following pause, Mantenna’s gaze licks her up and down. He’s still interested; she has to say something. “What’re you watching.”

Mantenna’s eyes pop out to look at the telescreen. He starts stammering, “Today’s battle. I like to watch Alliance heads pop.” Glimmer frowns, and the creature squeals; he’s nervous too. “That was bad to say to Princess. I will make it better, buy you drink.” Before Glimmer can protest, he flags down the slave working hooch duty tonight, and suddenly, she’s holding a battered metal beaker of Horde grog. 

Drink it, she thinks, you know what comes next. This will make it easier. Glimmer raises the beaker to her mouth. It smells like some of the cleaning fluids the servants use in Brightmoon castle. She lets the syrup touch her lips and sets the beaker down. “Thanks. It’s good,” she lies. 

Mantanna nods eagerly; he seems to have had quite a bit of Horde grog himself. “Look,” Glimmer says, suddenly changing tone, “I’m still pretty new here. I don’t really know how this goes, but I want you. Do you understand?”

Long fingers, only three on each hand, envelop Glimmer’s face. Mantenna grins; his little circle mouth is a tunnel of mismatched teeth. “Then let me show you how we do it in the Fright Zone.”

Holding Glimmer’s hand in his own, Mantenna leads hastily through the back halls of the Slave Brothel. He’s eager. That’s good, Glimmer thinks. It must be hard for a malformed thing like him to find willing partners. It should be easy for Glimmer to woo him to her will. He’s the perfect friend for her needs, Glimmer thinks, and yet- What will intercourse with this creature be like? Will his anatomy lend itself to typical mammalian reproduction, or does he have something else in mind? Hopefully nothing to do with that mouth of his.

Mantenna stops at one of the rooms. “This one okay,” the creature sings. 

Glimmer freezes. She can’t answer. I can’t do this, is all she thinks. It’s all too much like before. The hungry grip of a Hordesman, the stink coming from the room ahead. It’s all happening again. 

Tears flow down Glimmer’s face. She doesn’t notice, but Mantenna does. His weird mouth pulls into a sly smirk, as he brushes one of his long fat fingers down Glimmer’s cheek. “Is you scared Princess?” Is he mocking her? Glimmer can’t tell. “Still learning,” he sings on, “still new. Don’t worry Princess. Am not like others. I know how to please the ladies. Will be very gentle.”

Still frozen, Glimmer is pulled into the room. It’s a bit tidier than some others she seen, but she doesn’t notice. There’s a bed against the wall; an actual bed with legs, and a frame, and the mattress off the ground. Mantenna pushes Glimmer up close to it, and then sits down, legs over the side, knees (all four of them) spread apart. “Let’s start easy,” the eye creature says. He sets his hands on Glimmer’s shoulders. Even sitting down, he rises high above her; the lanky creature he is. He pushes her down to her knees, and then lets her go. Mantenna unbuckles his belt; the creature isn’t wearing much, just briefs and a flak vest with the horde insignia on the front. Glimmer had thought he may be wearing a kind of body suit, but no, the skin below his neck is blue, opposed to his red head. 

Mantenna opens his briefs, and part of Glimmer comes to, at least enough to wonder what will come forth from this monster’s groin. He has two of them; two penises, semi conjoined at the base, mirrors of each other in shape and size. They’re quite long, corresponding to Mantenna’s height, though not particularly thick. 

Glimmer finds them revolting, and turned her head away. “Don’t be like that,” Mantenna coos, and one of his hands pushes through Glimmer’s hair and takes hold of the back of her head. He forces her to face him. He pulls her in close, and holding the bases of his cocks with his other hand, points himself at Glimmer’s mouth. 

This, Glimmer thinks, might be something she can do. Work on him, while he sits back. She saw how it was done on the Floor already. She’ll be kneeling but she’ll still the one setting the pace. Carefully, she loosens her jaw. Both penis heads enter her mouth; it’s too much to maneuver. “Try just one,” Mantenna suggests, “to start.”

Glimmer lets one fall out and focuses on the other. She pulls it into her mouth, the whole head and then deeper, but not much deeper. Suck, she thinks; that’s what he wants. She does, and then thinks back to the couple on the Floor. The head of the performer of the act bobbed, so Glimmer bobs her head too. Mantenna produces a gurgling sound; Glimmer thinks it sounds like pleasure, and keeps going, even as her jaw muscles start to strain. 

Mantenna’s gurgling sounds fizzle out, and he pumps slowly into Glimmer’s mouth. That startles her; she’s losing control. “Use hands.” Mantenna sounds impatient, so Glimmer does. She holds a cock in each hand, and squeezes. Use hands for what, she thinks, still sucking. Mantenna holds her wrists and pumps his own shafts with her hands. She gets the idea, but it’s a lot to do. Suck on the end of one while pumping it, and then with the other hand, pump another. She wonders if this would be easier if she actually drank the Horde grog the monster presented to her.

It’s Mantenna’s left cock that Glimmer has in her mouth, and while trying to keep the complicated rhythm of it all, she takes it too deep into her throat, and gags. Reflexively, she spits him out, and starts coughing, while above, Mantenna makes an odd squawking sound. He’s laughing. “Princess has lots to learn.”

Glimmer turns up to the smirking monster. “I’ll do better,” she insists. Most of her lipstick is now smeared up Mantenna left penis, and the make up around her eyes has streaked down her cheeks with her tears. 

Mantenna puffs out one of his cheeks and thinks about it. “Might be too advanced for you.” He puts his hands under Glimmer’s arms and lifts her up off her knees. He tosses her onto the bed, belly down, bent over the side. A three fingered hand plants down on the center of her back, and Glimmer is stuck in that position again, waiting for what comes next. Mantenna pushes up her skirt, and then spreads Glimmer’s labia. “Ooh,” he squeaks, “so clean.” He then prods her. He’s trying to shove both cocks in together. 

Glimmer barely manages to cry, “No.” 

It’s a tight fit, but with some stretching from his thick conjoined finger, he gets the heads in. He keeps pushing, and they go in, slowly, painfully. “Wait,” Glimmer wheezes. He can’t hear her. “Wait,” she nearly screams, and he does. That’s a good sign. Glimmer takes a moment to breathe, and then begs, “I want to try with my mouth again please.” He bucks his hips, and shrill, Glimmer begs more, “Please, I want to do it with my mouth.”

Another buck from Mantenna and Glimmer sobs. His cocks are just about stuck now; maybe he could go deeper, but maybe not. He pulls out, and Glimmer breathes relief. She doesn’t stay on her belly. She turns onto her knees, and reaches out for Mantenna’s penises. She takes them in her hands desperately, and alternates sucking one, then the other. She stretches her lips to take both, and finds the creature enjoys it when she works them together, like one organ. 

It’s not enough. Mantenna wants more, and he wants it deeper. He grabs Glimmer by the back of her head, and pushes her in. She tries to wriggle out of his grip; she already taking too much, but he takes hold of her hair, and shoves deep.

Glimmer panics; she can’t breathe, and she’s gagging. She thinks she’s going to throw up, and if she does, she could drown in it. She has to make it stop, but Mantenna is holding onto her head too tightly. 

She bites. She doesn’t mean to, but it happens, and she bites hard. Glimmer is thrown back, off Mantenna’s cocks and lands against the bed. There’s an overwhelming sound around her. Has some kind of siren gone off? No, it’s the creature’s scream. Mantenna’s on the floor now, hands between his four legs. He’s still screaming that wild undulating scream. Glimmer tastes something salty. She spits into her hands. There’s blood.

Over the scream of Mantenna, there’s a crack at the door, and then it collapses in, off its hinges. Horde troopers, fully armored, stand at the doorway. They aren’t more horny Hordesmen on leave. They’re stationed here to prevent just this kind of happening. They tackle Glimmer to the ground. Time and space blur.

It’s later. Glimmer’s in a dark and (as far as she can tell) empty room. At each of her sides is an iron post, bolted to the ground, and shackling one hand. The posts are far apart and low to the ground, so Glimmer kneels. She’s been kneeling for a long time now. She’s sore, but she’s used to being sore now.

What a failure, she thinks. Her plan; her precious, foolish, worthless plan. What was she thinking? She doesn’t know how to seduce people. She doesn’t even know how to make friends. And then when that creature opened his briefs, she was already in far too deep. She should have taken it slower; talk to him first, control the situation. She should have drank the grog; maybe she could have done this numb. She should have let him have his way with her vaginally; she’d be hurt, but it would be over. She should have stayed hiding in the back rooms. Escape? What a fantasy. There was never any hope. 

In the dark delirium, the shadows coagulate into a figure. A dream? A nightmare? It is the shape of the Horde witch, Shadow Weaver, and she is very real. 

Strangely, Glimmer is glad to see her. Shadow Weaver has power. It was her authority that sent Glimmer to this torment; that same authority could bring her out. Glimmer starts to speak, shakily, “I understand now, Shadow Weaver. I’m not a Princess anymore. I’m not special. You made your point. I’m just spoiled trash. I get it. You can stop this now.”

Shadow Weaver floats closer and the eyes of her mask squint. “Poor Mantenna,” she states, “not the strongest of our Force Captains, and definitely not the brightest. If not for those all-seeing eyes of his we probably would have left that malformed monstrosity where we found him. In his cave, under a cracked First One’s energy reactor. But we didn’t. Because we need him. He’s fine by the way. Just a little nick on his willy. Or should I say, willies. I didn’t know the wretch had two, but then again, it’s not my job to know. It’s your’s.”

Glimmer is left to explain herself. “I don’t know,” she stammers, “it just happened. I didn’t mean to. He was hurting me.”

“Hurting you? Like you know pain. You, the Princess Brightmoon, where people live on the dream that life the universe’s gracious gift? All life is pain, Glimmer.”

The tears have started again. “I know that now. Don’t you remember? You had me auctioned. That soldier; he raped me. He made me bleed. I will never not feel that pain.”

“Oh Princess,” taunts Shadow Weaver, “it hurt, did it? To have your royal snatch so cruelly slackened?” The Horde witch cackles. “Nothing,” she declares, “the spell that made me what I am tore my soul apart. I damned myself for the greater good of my people, and the cowards rejected me as a monster. That is pain. But you’ll learn. Not that that’s the point. The point is to see if you, a crying brat who inherited so much and then failed so greatly, can be made useful. I like to think I’m helping you, Princess. That’s why I came down here, back to the festering underbelly of the Fright Zone. To see if you have made any progress. But then I was told that you have been naughty. There will be consequences, and you’re not in Brightmoon anymore. I won’t be grounding you.”

From her robes, Shadow Weaver reveals something. A circle. No, she unfurls it into a long dark braid coiling to the ground. A whip. “I could use electricity. Or my magic. Part of me wants not the leave marks. Your body is a Horde asset now, after all. But the whip. You’re a slave, Glimmer, and where there are slaves, there are whips. It is inevitable, as it is universal. Proverbial, almost poetic; one being the symbol for the other.” Shadow Weaver begins circling, and Glimmer holds her eyes on the witch for as long as she can, but she disappears behind her, and stops. “Prepare yourself Princess, as I write tonight’s mistake into your skin.”

A crack, the impact, and a line of fire down Glimmer’s back. All simultaneous. She screams. She screams out all the air she has, rattling the chains around her wrists. “You felt that,” Shadow Weaver says. Yes, Glimmer thinks, she did. “It’s only the beginning.” 

Another crack, the impact again, and another searing line, crossing the first. Screams. 

“I’ll aim for your wings next. I’ll cross out both vestigial marks of the Runestone no longer yours.” Two quick short strokes lay an ‘X’ of pain over one wing mark, and then the other. “And that rump, thick with rich Brightmoon calories.” A cascade of lashes across Glimmer’s buttocks. Then the whippings stop. Is it over; Glimmer can feel each heartbeat burn through her backside. It must be over.

Shadow Weaver appears at her before her. The whip cracks. Shadow Weaver stops calling out her strikes as the length of the whip attacks Glimmer’s front. The Horde witch flogs her across her breasts, her belly, her thighs. One well aimed lash strikes Glimmer between her legs, right across her labia. That’s the last distinct lash she feels. They blur together.

When it’s all done, Glimmer feels like the skin on all her body has been peeled off. She’s sticky too, as some of the lashes bit deep enough to draw blood. She’s awash with it all, as she kneels sunken slack in her manacles.

Shadow Weaver’s whip coils to the floor just in front of Princess Glimmer. “I’ll be back,” the Horde witch says, “I feel responsible now, for your progress. So be good. Won’t you Princess?”

Glimmer hears and understands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After finishing yet another brutal chapter, I find myself wondering what about this kid's show inspired me to write something this dark and sick. But alas, I write on.  
> Next chapter: Force Captain Catra arrives at the Slave Brothel searching for Glimmer. What does she want? And what does this wicked place mean to her?


	7. A Force Captain's Prerogative

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> T/W for violence, suicidal thoughts, and drug use

Chapter Six - A Force Captain’s Prerogative

The Force Captain’s barracks. An entire wing of the Fright Zone’s central citadel dedicated to the Horde’s elite troops. The Horde’s ultimate reward. A whole room just for one soldier, with polished steel walls; no rust, and a bed with multiple blankets if a Force Captain so desires. Such luxury. Some mornings Catra awakes under her high clean ceiling, and can’t believe it. Wasn’t it just yesterday she was among the lowest of the Horde’s vermin? Part of her still believes she is. And even today, she still acts like it.

A Force Captain’s quarters contains a mirror, something Catra’s never had before. The Horde strongly discourages vanity, but Force Captains are an exception, for they are to represent the values of the Horde personified; triumph and dignity, even for those deemed freakish or deficient. Catra is in front of her mirror now. She’s putting on the uniform of a faceless Horde trooper. She stole that uniform. She didn’t have to, she realizes now. She could have commandeered any trooper’s uniform without question. That is her prerogative as Force Captain. But she hadn’t thought to. She wanted something, so she crawled on her belly through the Fright Zone’s shadows until she found that something unguarded. 

A beast in a hat, comes a whisper from her memories, is still just a beast.

“Shut up,” Catra speaks aloud, “you don’t know me, hag. You never knew me.” No one’s there to hear her. 

Catra removes her mask, or headdress, or whatever it is (she’s always had it, but never known what it is), and hides it in a secret spot under her mattress. Without it, her hair falls into her face, and her ears flop out. She ties her hair down, and folds her ears back. She’s already wearing the black under suit of a Horde Trooper. What’s left is the armor. Boots first, then the gauntlets, then the chest piece, which snaps together around her shoulders. She grasps the helmet, and wonders what exactly she thinks she’s doing. 

Stay home, she tells herself. Try to get some rest. You don’t want to go there. Indeed, she doesn’t want to go there, but she can’t stand the thought of avoiding it any longer. She counters herself, it’s interfering with your work, making you sloppy. How do you expect to usurp Shadow Weaver and run the Fright Zone, when you can’t think straight? How do you going to prove to everyone that you aren’t as worthless as you feel? 

Catra lowers the helmet over her face. I’ll go then, she resolves. I’ll go there, and I’ll have a look around, but I won’t see anything. And then maybe, tonight I’ll be able to get some sleep.

Catra turns towards the door. Her tail, she remembers. Horde Troopers have all sorts of tails, and surely some have tails like Catra. She won’t risk it. An old red blanket does the job of an impromptu cape.

Outside her room, Catra feels the floor shaking. She knows who’s coming. “Catra,” calls the cheerful voice of fellow Force Captain Scorpia, “hey Catra.” Scorpia comes around the corner, and finds Catra disguised as a common trooper. She runs over to her. “Hey,” she begins eagerly, “Have you seen Catra around? I coulda sworn I heard her voice just a second ago.” 

Catra looks back blankly, through her helmet’s visor. More often than not, the Horde promotes its Force Captains based on a single exceptional attribute. For Scorpia, that is her warrior’s strength. 

“Well,” Scorpia answers, “if you see her, tell I was askin’ for her. I made her a present.” Her voice drops to a whisper, “It’s another picture. I know, but I think she’ll really like this one.” The scorpioni Force Captain grins, “Don’t tell her what it is.”

Catra performs the Horde salute and leaves. 

How to get there, Catra ponders. She could take a skiff, but no; that large loud vehicle would bring far too much attention. She needs to be discreet. One of her subordinates could drive her, but who? Lonnie would talk if she found out where Catra was going, and Kyle? Rogelio would kill him and Catra both if she took him there. The tram, Catra decides. She’ll have to take the tram.

In a murky tunnel beneath the Fright Zone, Catra boards a rickety car, which hangs from an electrified railway. It is but one point in a web of such rails, with which the Fright Zone shuffles its workers between the tenements and the factories. Some troopers use it too. Catra isn’t the only one today, though she isn’t a trooper, and no one but her is wearing a helmet. No one seems to pay her any mind though.

The tram is a hazardous way to travel. Breakdowns and accidents are common, and more; the tram’s cars are always over packed, a stressful environment which can lead to fights, riots sometimes. None of that happens today. Only one event catches Catra’s mismatched eyes. A scorpioni man and his human wife. He holds her steady as the rickety machine rocks. She’s heavily pregnant. They look happy, even here, packed as they are under the mechanized horror of the Fright Zone. Catra can’t look for long. 

Even the trams only go so deep into the Horde capital. Catra has to walk a good chunk of the way into the Fright Zone’s under city. Seedy territory where those not even the Horde could find use for go and try to eke out survival. All fail someday. 

Catra treads carefully down these dark streets. A toothless human skitters on all fours from one alley to another, startling her. Catra keeps walking. 

Further down, a faun of all creatures (so rare in the Fright Zone) rushes up to her. They’re clad in a toga of brown rags. They rave, “The universe rights what is wrong. The universe sees all and passes judgement in time. Have you made your peace, stranger? Creation knows what you’ve done. Will you accept the consequences with gratitude in your heart, or will you fight that which made you, and annihilate yourself?” Catra turns away, but the lunatic doesn’t fall back. “Listen stranger, for it is your soul at stake.”

They get too close, and Catra shoves them back with one of her vambraces, silencing them with a feline hiss. The mad faun falls onto the the grimy street, and Catra breaks into a run. “Mercy,” cries the mad faun, “mercy on you, poor creature.”

Catra arrives. Already, the red lanterns surrounding the lopsided entrance shine. She blends easily into the crowd of other troopers and the like, and slips inside, where it’s loud and dark. The music machine thumps a particularly raunchy tune tonight, while warping spotlights chase each other in lurid shades across the dim Floor. 

The smell is repugnant on countless levels. The perspiring flesh of so many humanoids, the stinging sweet of flowing grog. Somewhere, under many other scents, Catra thinks she can smell blood. She can definitely smell tears. 

It all threatens to overwhelm Catra’s well tuned senses. She finds a place to sit, alone. Calm; she holds her breath for thirty seconds, which she counts carefully, and then breathes out. Look, she reminds herself, just look, and if you don’t find anything, go home, satisfied. 

Catra scans the Floor. There’s a lot to take in. The largest of the neon lights, the one that spells out ‘SEX’ has one of the letters backwards. They never fixed that, she thinks. 

The screen is out tonight. There’s some staged pornography playing, as opposed to the usual snuff. It’s pretty standard; a pair of oiled females squirming into each other. 

What else is going on tonight? The silver poles are up tonight, each with its own spinning dancer. It’s quite the show, Catra has to admit. The excitement; the athleticism.

“Let me guess,” a voice intrudes, “scar face?”

Catra spins around, and hisses, “What?”

There’s a young female standing over her. She blonde and buff, because of course she is. Catra swallows nervously, as the slave explains, “You’re wearing your helmet inside, so I’m guessing something really gnarly happened to your face.” The blonde slave giggles, “Don’t worry honey. It don’t bother me. No, not at all. I think it’s romantic; brave trooper, damaged by the war, lookin’ for comfort anywhere they can. Won’t you let me do that for you?”

Catra lowers her voice, trying (not too hard) to disguise it, “You’re not my type.” That’s not exactly a lie. This slave is cute; Catra doesn’t like cute.

A pink polished finger runs down Catra’s helmet. “Oh? Maybe I could help you find your type. I mean, I’d hate to just leave you here, all lonesome.”

She waits for an answer. How should Catra put this? Vague, but not too vague. “I like meat,” she finally says. “I like girls, and I like them to have some to have some meat.” No reaction from Blondie. Catra goes on, “But not huge or anything. Little. Little and thick. And young. I want her young.”

Blondie smiles. Knowingly. “You don’t have to play coy with me, soldier. I know who you’re looking for.” 

“You do?” Catra chokes on her words.

“Oh yeah,” Blondie answers slyly, “she’s around. Might be a little hard to get to, though. ‘Cuz last time they brought her out, the troops mobbed her. Imagine that? So much attention just for whose womb she fell out of.” The blonde slave shrugs, “If you do get to her, you ought to know,” she leans in and whispers, “she’s a lousy lay. No experience; a total dead fish. So I’ve heard.”

Catra shakes her head. This is some mix up, she tells herself. But still, it’s a lead. Catra has to pursue it. Pursue it, she tells herself, find nothing and go home. She asks, “What do you mean hard to get to?”

Blondie points up. Hung from the ceiling is a barbed chain, holding a cage. One of the meandering spotlights passes over it, and Catra thinks she sees- No, she’s sure she sees tawny skin, and a glint of purple. 

Catra marches herself to the back of the Floor, to the tap, up to the slave lucky enough to have procured hooch duty tonight; a well muscled male wearing nothing but a ringed harness and a jockstrap. “Hey killer,” he says, “looking for a sip?” 

Catra grabs him by one of his leather straps and pulls him down to her height. She growls, “Who do I got to talk to for that girl in the cage?”

The slave tries to strain out of Catra’s grip, and when he can’t, he points above, “Those chicks are display only.” Sure enough; the hanging cages are numerous. While Catra looks, the slave continues, “But if you want, we could have a go? I could do you better than any bitch.”

Catra yanks hard on the harness, cutting into the slave’s neck.

“Okay, okay,” he cries, “no need to get rough. One of Vultak’s boys is hauling the cages tonight. He’s over by the electrophone. Can’t miss him; he’s dressed just like you.” Catra lets him go with a shove, and storms away. Behind her, the slave jeers sardonically, “Go get your girl, killer.”

In the corner nearest the music machine, a Horde trooper guards a panel of pulleys. He’s leaning against the wall. His stun baton is clipped to his belt. That’s a mistake. Catra comes down on him, hard and fast. She kicks his legs out from under him, and slams his helmet against the wall behind. While he’s stunned, she demands, “Give me that girl.” She points up, and back.

The guarding trooper doesn’t fight her. She’s got him scared, just as planned. “I can’t,” he stammers, “Vultak said display only.” Catra kicks him in the stomach. He only cries. This is taking too long. Reluctantly, Catra flashes her Force Captain’s badge; she’s glad she brought it. The trooper obeys, and cranks the desired cage down. 

Catra dashes to it. That blonde slave said something about a mob. Catra wants to be there to catch the girl inside. The busy Floor parts around the sinking cage. Some are staring. Catra doesn’t want to pick a fight with a whole crowd; that could start a riot. Just get to the cage, she tells herself; grab the girl, take her someplace quiet, and have a look. Then what, she thinks, see nothing and go home? That’s not going to happen, and she knows that now. 

The cage touches down on the floor, and Catra opens it (it wasn’t locked; it had no reason to be, dangling from the ceiling), and sees the girl inside. Display; that’s what they called her. Catra sees why. Such soft skin, such plush curves, pressed so cruelly against hard iron bars. An irresistible sight in the eye of a sadist. And the girl herself, lounging languid, but scared. Splayed out, naked to completion, the purple hair around her vagina on full display, she groans softly.

The girl’s glassy eyes blink; confused, she realizes she’s on the ground. Catra offers her hand, and trustingly, the girl takes it. 

In the light of the winding halls behind the Floor, Catra confirms it is her. Was there ever any doubt? Princess Glimmer of Brightmoon. Catra doesn’t really know much about her. Sassy, but soft, vulnerable. She took Adora from her. Adora, her whole world; her sister who could have been her lover too, if only they had that chance. Hate her, Catra thinks. 

Glimmer clings to Catra’s arm. She’s cold. Of course she is; she’s naked. Catra guides her into an empty room. There, she guides Glimmer down onto a bed mat, allowing her to sit on something soft. The Brightmoon Princess shivers, so Catra throws the nearest cleanest blanket over her shoulders. Glimmer holds it tight over her nakedness, and leans in towards Catra, who lets her. She presses her cheek up against the plate of the stolen uniform, wrapping her arms against Catra’s narrow waist. She’s holding me, Catra thinks to herself, should I hold her back? Do it; let her believe a touch from a stranger can be kind. Catra places one gloved hand on on Glimmer’s back (she’s soft; even through the blanket, she feels so preciously soft), and the other on Glimmer’s head of purple sparkles. Gone is the cute bob she used to sport; her hair’s slicked back now; a more mature look. 

Glimmer is still for a long time; so still Catra thinks she may have fallen asleep against her. Then she moves. She raises her head to the visor of the stolen helmet. Those eyes; no longer vibrant, and barely purple. More like grey. But still beautiful; hauntingly deep, and even unfocused and glassy as they are right now, cutting. 

Glimmer lays a kiss on the green glass of the helmet’s face, then pulls back. The Brightmoon Princess finds some strength; she pulls herself up to straddle Catra, and runs her hands down her uniform’s chest piece. She finds the latching bolts at the shoulders easily, and the plates fall away. She caresses Catra, and finding breasts, gently squeezes. “You’re a woman,” Glimmer speaks slowly, distantly, “I still haven’t made it with a girl yet. But you can teach me, right?”

More kisses on Catra’s stolen helmet, tongue pressing against glass and steel. Stop her, thinks Catra, this isn’t what you came here to do. What did she come here to do? 

Catra remains frozen, even as Glimmer pulls her helmet up and off of her face. No, not yet, thinks Catra; she isn’t ready to be seen, to be recognized. Fight her. Hide your face. Do something. Catra is still as Glimmer presses her into a deep wet kiss. Her lips, so soft. Soft like- Like what? Like nothing Catra has ever known before. Not in the Fright Zone, where everything’s angular and industrial, and so very harsh. And unlike the clandestine practice kisses she once shared with Adora. Adora; her sole light, snuffed out by sudden self-righteousness. Adora, who kissed so true to her character, with valor and hidden doubt. But this is so different. More than a kiss; a taste of another, higher level of living. A new world, where kindness, and love, and mercy are expected and cherished together. To find such a kiss here, in this pit of evil; Catra feels sick.

“Get off,” she demands. Glimmer hears, and pulls back. She looks unmasked Catra in the eye, and then leans in to take another kiss. It’s so sweet. “I said get off of me.” Catra takes hold of the Brightmoon Princess and lunges. She pins her down on the mat. “What’s wrong with you? Are you cum brained already?”

Glimmer stirs under Catra’s grip. She thinks about struggling, but only lolls her eyes, unsure. She asks in return, “What does that mean?”

“Cum. Brained. Like all the rutting in this place filled your brain up with cum, and now you’re stupid. So are you? Are you cum brained?” 

Silence follows. Catra lets it last until it hurts, and then she shakes the girl beneath her, “Do you even recognize me?” 

Glimmer breathes out softly, “Of course I recognize you. How could I not, after everything?” Catra lets Glimmer go, and falls backwards onto the bed mat. The Force Captain and the Princess lie together now, but pointed in different directions; opposite. “If you’re here to gloat, you can. I’ll let you do anything you want. I’m not allowed to stop you.”

“That’s not why I’m here.”

“Then why are you here?” Now Glimmer looms over Catra. “I can think of only one other reason you’d come here. Why not let me do this for you?” The lips of the Brightmoon Princess threaten to grace Catra’s mouth again.

Catra hisses, “Stop.” She’s serious, Glimmer realizes, angry even. She won’t press any further; she won’t cross another patron. 

“Then why are you here?”

Catra still doesn’t know, but she spits out an explanation, “I was just wanted to see if she really did it.” She? Shadow Weaver.

“Did you think she was joking?” A hint of venom, but still so distant.

Catra has been liar her whole life. As a child she learned to lie to Shadow Weaver; her earliest defiance of her wicked mother. Then she lied to Adora, telling her she was happy to support the favored sister from her shadow. Now she lies to herself. She lies very well to herself. She doesn’t lie to Glimmer, “No. I knew what she was going to do.”

Glimmer repeats her question, “Then why are you here?”

Again, the truth comes out, “I don’t know.” 

Time passes. Catra and Glimmer lie in each other’s arms, cheek to cheek, heart to heart. Neither the Princess nor the Force Captain knows how they came to be this way, but neither pulls away.

Glimmer asks heavily, “How’s the war?”

Catra shouldn’t answer. Powerless and broken, Princess Glimmer is still an enemy. She does, “Well. Really well. The Princesses defend their own Kingdoms, away from each other. Just like before. The Horde can do whatever it wants again.”

“And Brightmoon?”

“Queen Angella declared eighteen years of national mourning. We know ‘cuz all their troops in the field started flying black banners. At least they did before they were all recalled to Brightoon.”

“Mourning? They think I’m dead?”

“Aren’t you?”

An empty beat, then, “I am.”

“No sign of Adora since- It’s been pretty boring; all the fighting without her there trying to stop me.”

“So that’s it then? The bad guys just win?”

“That’s the idea. We’re trying, but-”

“I shouldn’t tell you. It’s not like it matters to you, here.”

“Tell me.”

Again, Catra can’t resist. Curse this little demon. “The Horde has a new Science Officer. She brilliant and chaotic, and annoying. She has this theory about the Black Garnet. She thinks she can hack the planet, or something. But the Black Garnet belongs to Shadow Weaver. She wont let us near it. That’s all.”

“The Black Garnet.” Glimmer licks her lips, “That sounds interesting. I wish I could help.” A touch of the shrill Brightmoon Princess Catra met on the battlefield falls through the the distant resignation.

Catra grunts and rolls away. An intruding thought coils around her mind. Don’t let her use you; they always want to use you. “Too bad you’re here,” she tries to sound cruel, but she can’t make it happen, so she sits up and turns her back to the Brightmoon Princess.

Glimmer pulls herself up too, and rests her head against Catra’s spine. Now nervous, the Princess speaks, “I have a lot of experience with Runestones.” She rubs her cheek into Catra’s shoulder blades. It feels good. Catra turns around, and Glimmer takes her hand, quivering. She wasn’t quivering before.

“I can’t get you out of here,” Catra says. Glimmer’s touch falls away. Then Catra goes on, “It wasn’t supposed to be like this. This wasn’t my plan.” She wants to shout it, but she swallows down her words and continues, softly growling, “She took it from me, like she took everything else in my life.” Catra runs out of words; only feeling is left.

Glimmer still clings to her back, “If you can’t let me out, then can you kill me?”

Catra turns round, “Can you kill me first?”

More time passes with silent holding, then Catra says, “Your breath stinks.”

“Sorry.”

“You drank the grog, didn’t you? Of course you did; I know that smell. Do you even know what that stuff is?”

Doubtfully, “Wine?”

“Fuel grade ethanol cut with whatever other drugs they can find. I think there was some codeine in that batch.”

“Oh,” Glimmer hiccups another bubble of that sleepy sickly stench.

“You shouldn’t drink that stuff.”

“It helps. With the pain.”

“It’ll kill you. And it won’t make it easy. So please. Don’t.”

“I’ll try.” 

She will try, in the future. If there’s still one of those. A promise falls out of Catra’s mouth, “I’ll come back. Here, I mean. When I can.”

“Thanks, but-”

“But?”

“But don’t leave just yet. Stay the night. Please.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this was something different. Tell me what you think of my sudden jump to Catra's perspective. I do plan to return to it, but next chapter, we will be back with Glimmer.


	8. Catra

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Glimmer receives an invitation from a Force Captain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> T/W for rape, torture, and references to child sexual abuse

Chapter Six - Catra

Shadow Weaver’s brutal whipping left Glimmer’s skin a mess of welts and cuts. It was Vultak who found her when the punishment had finished, after Glimmer had fainted from pain. He found her hanging from her manacled wrists, sticky with blood. In whispers, he cursed the witch for leaving his intended star attraction so unpresentable, and then wrapping her in a blanket as not to bloody his suit, he carried her off and rushed her to the laboratory of Modulok. 

Vultak was lucky to arrive at the gruesome cyborg’s lab before Glimmer’s wounds had the chance to finish clotting, allowing scar tissue to grow. He was luckier still Modulok’s second head had taken a liking to little Glimmer, for he had caught the Horde surgeon in the middle of an operation to reattach the legs of a midlevel trooper. Mundane work for Modulok; work he dropped readily for another chance to inspect Princess Glimmer. He repaired the tears in her skin his own way, preventing scarring, and he chilled her skin to reduce the swelling of her bruises. Then, while he had her, he performed a couple more little check-ups. He confirmed Glimmer not to be pregnant, and that his sub-dermal contraception implant was still in working order. He also checked her wings (no change there) and her weight, which was stable (it is not unheard of for the Horde’s recently enslaved to refuse the Fright Zone’s bland food and waste away). 

Modulok would have held onto to the Brightmoon Princess longer, but Vultak has no trust for that second head of his; the one he built to house his id and keep his primarily scientific mind clear. No, he wanted her squirreled away in his Slave Brothel as soon as possible. It was there the young Princess woke, still with needles of pain biting her all across her body, but unmarred. Or so she thought. 

Glimmer notices now that her advanced healing has missed one spot. Across the bicep of her left arm, she finds three scars, three parallel stripes around her arm. They strike her as familiar, matching a recent memory, or perhaps a dream. A warm hairy body pressed against her own, with stripes in rows of three. Catra; these three scars, faint but still present, match Catra’s stripes almost exactly.

“I’ll come back,” she said. Glimmer cannot deny she wishes she will. Last night, the Force Captain’s arms, was Glimmer’s first real night of sleep in the Fright Zone. Until now, she had been too frightened to sleep, and too tired to function. How many times had the Slave Brothel’s patrons promised not to hurt her? But only Catra, who told her next to nothing, left her unscathed.

But why did she come here? Shame? Is there such a thing in the Evil Horde? Or something else? In hazy memories, Vultak and Modulok discussed plans for Princess Glimmer beyond the torment of the Fright Zone’s Slave Brothel. Could Catra be trying to trick her? Catra, like Adora, had been raised by Shadow Weaver, so is it not conceivable that the other daughter of the Horde witch came last night on her mother’s behalf? That doesn’t feel true, but Glimmer resolves to take care, even as she longs for Catra to return. 

The day goes on, and Glimmer must prepare for the night. She would like to hide again, to live out her cruel sentence to this depraved house hiding always in wait for Catra to return, but Glimmer is informed with the delivery of her daytime food ration that a specific request has been made for her tonight, and that she must prepare for what is called, in the Slave Brothel of the Fright Zone, a date. 

By chance, Glimmer meets Eurypteri in the shower room before the evening party starts. Glimmer is glad to see her, and uses the faucet beside her to disinfect. Still a cold, unpleasant process, but brief and necessary. They towel off together, and Glimmer catches herself scanning the body of the Princess of the Fallen Scorpion Kingdom. A member of the race of giant bugs who betrayed the world. What interesting anatomy they have, if one really looks; the combination of endo and exoskeleton. The plates that form the tail run subtly up the spine where they attach and support the shoulder places, which are legendarily impenetrable. And then there is the feet, which in a way match the claws, with a pair of pincers conjoined into toes, forming a foot pad. 

Princess Eurypteri catches Glimmer staring, and playfully sways towards her so their hips brush each other. Glimmer starts, “That’s not what I- Sorry.”

“Brightmoon Princess,” Eurypteri says. She only now recognizes Glimmer. “Up and about, and looking so healthy.” She snaps her claws, eager to touch. Glimmer notices a mark across Euruypteri’s lower abdomen, a scar from a cesarean section. The elder Princess had mentioned having a daughter. Glimmer feels ill.

“I really didn’t mean it like that. So please don’t.” Eurypteri is a large women; she can be intimidating, looming with desire like she is now. Still, Glimmer manages to stop her, saying, “I got a note with my ration bars today. I have a date tonight? Do you know what that means?”

Eurypteri’s eyes snap out of their conditioned lust, and she smiles softly, “A date? But you’ve only just started here. What wonderful news.”

“Is it though? Really? What’s going to happen to me?”

Eurypteri finishes drying herself, and then, with her dexterous claws, she fastens her silk robe just under her spiked shoulder carapaces. She looks stunning; all Glimmer has is her dirty bathrobe. “A date means you’ve been requested by someone high up in the Horde’s authority. Maybe even a Force Captain.”

“A Force Captain,” Glimmer chokes.

Eurypteri coos, “Oh? Do you have one in mind?”

Dishonestly, Glimmer shakes her head, “No,” then asks, “what would a Force Captain want with me?”

“Well, only a Force Captain has access to the suites here. They’re real nice and real private. Oh,” Eurypteri falls into her own memories, “how precious it is just to talk with someone here.”

A Force Captain just wants to talk? Glimmer dares to hope.

Evening comes and Glimmer doesn’t have to wait long. Guards, like the ones who dragged her away after her incident with Mantenna, arrive to fetch her. The very sight of them runs her blood cold; the memory of her whipping, still clear in her mind. 

Faceless troopers, behind green glass. One of them says, “Why isn’t she dressed? Didn’t she get the note?”

Glimmer realizes she’s still wearing her dirty robe. She spent all day thinking, wondering; she forgot to dress. Does it really matter?

One of the troopers answers the other, “We better get her dolled up fast. We don’t want to keep her waiting.”

Her? Her Force Captain is a woman? Could it really be her?

In a hurry, the Brothel guards escort Glimmer to the costume room. They want her dressed for a ‘date’ so she will be. What to wear? No spikes, and no black; Glimmer wants to look pretty. She tears the costume pile up for a dress that fits. She finds one, a short sleeveless number with patterning which would probably work better as wallpaper. It’s purple though, purple like home. Glimmer wears it with a shade of soft pink lipstick and a dusting of mauve eyeshadow. She’s ready.

The Brothel guards take Glimmer as far from the Floor as the vast building allows, far away from the noise, and the thumping music machine. These are the suites, Glimmer thinks, they look just like all the other doors. They stop Glimmer in front of one, and knock. A moment passes, and it unlocks with an electrical beep. The green glass faces staring down on Glimmer tell her to go inside. She does.

When Glimmer shuts the door behind her, the electric beep sounds out again. She’s locked in; she doesn’t need to check. She’s not afraid though. 

Barely inside, and already this room is so much more than Glimmer is used to, here in the Slave Brothel of the Fright Zone. There’s a carpet, thick and clean, and there’s a bed with shiny silk sheets, and room for multiple people, and beyond that, a table is set. The table is steel like everything else in the Fright Zone, but smooth, not scrapped together, and the chairs on each side of it are cushioned on the seat and the back. Glimmer steps towards it. She smells something, and she thinks its food; real food. Glimmer can’t step any closer; she’s too afraid to be disappointed.

“Hello,” she calls out, “is anyone there?”

Beyond the table and bed, there’s a curtain hung from the ceiling, with some faint light behind it. There’s definitely someone moving behind it. Changing maybe. Glimmer waits in front of it patiently until a shadow materializes behind it. Someone tall and thick.

It’s not her, Glimmer realizes, and she feels her heart fall out. It’s not her. 

A webbed green hand pushes the curtain aside, and there stands a muscular and curvaceous cephaloid womAn. Her solitary eye falls on Princess Glimmer, and her thick blue lips stretch into a sharp toothy smile. “You really are new at this,” her voice is deep and surly, but also sensual. “You’re not supposed to demand anything from me. No, you’re here for me, so you sit with my goodies, and you wait for me. Right, sweetie?”

It’s not her. That’s all Glimmer can think. It’s not her.

The cephaloid Force Captain repeats herself, this time with a serpentine hiss in her voice, “Right, sweetie?”

Glimmer makes her way to the table, though her knees and ankles wobble beneath her. She sits down, folding her hands in her lap. She tries not to cry. It’s happening again; Glimmer is locked in a room with yet another Horde fanatic who is probably going to rape her. It’s not her. It’s happening again. Help.

Set on the table is a loaf of bread, a jar of brined fishes, and most prized, bowl of fresh oranges. Real food at last. Glimmer can barely see it; her world is falling away from her. Webbed hands clap, “Wake up, Princess.” Glimmer does; her eyes snap to this new lady Force Captain. She’s strong, a Horde juggernaut in her own right, but clearly dressed for a night of pleasure. She wears a bustier, intentionally too small, so that her suction cup nipples spill out over the top. And on her long thick legs, she wears fishnet stockings clipped to a black garter belt. Fearsome, but still feminine. A fellow woman, Glimmer thinks, hopes; maybe she’ll be gentle with me. The worst, Glimmer recalls from her previous encounters with Hordesmen, has come from their desire to stab her with their cocks. Still, Shadow Weaver didn’t go easy on her; no not with her whip. And those tentacles; four of them, hanging from the cephloid’s back. Glimmer shudders.

Glimmer forces her eyes to the Horde warrior’s one; the other socket is covered by her Force Captain’s badge. She feels her jaw quiver, and the lady in front of her bites her own lip. She speaks, “Octavia, by the way.”

“Octavia,” Glimmer repeats respectfully, “I’m-”

“I know who you are, Glimmer of Brightmoon. A real Princess, here. I just had to see it for myself.”

Glimmer only nods

“Of course, you’re not the only Princess here. And yes, I’ve had the other one. A real masochist, she is. A little past her prime if you ask me, though. But you, still young and so innocent.”

“Innocent?” Glimmer doesn’t feel innocent. Not any more.

“If you weren’t, your hands would’t be shaking.”

They are, Glimmer realizes; oh how they shake.

“We’re gonna have a lot of fun tonight, you and me. But first, a present.” Octavia gestures forward with her clawed green hand. She means the food. “Fit for a Princess, right?” Glimmer nods, and Octavia commands, “Eat.”

The oranges look nice, vibrant and round as opposed to dull and rectangular. She takes one and peels it. The juicy lobe she eats first should explode with flavor, but she’s too scared to taste.

Octavia reaches into the brine for a fish; a whole one, scales bones and all. She bites off the head, and crunches the eyes and skull in her shark’s teeth. She laughs, “This the kind of grub you’re used to Princess?”

Glimmer nods, but she’s lying. This is what commoners eat, especially the whole fish, fare only fit for the nonhuman tribes around Salineas.

“All this is illegal here in the Fright Zone. Contraband you buy from smugglers with real money, siphoning the Horde’s economy into the hands of slimy profiteers. Lord Hordak would send me to Beast Island if he knew I had this. Yes, even me, his best Force Captain. But hey; it’s not every night I get to dine with a Princess. So I thought I’d go all out, and maybe soften you up a little bit.”

Glimmer diligently, mechanically continues eating her orange, as Octavia reaches across the table and strokes Glimmer’s cheek. “Though,” she says, taking a stinging pinch of flesh, “you look pretty soft to me already.” Glimmer drops her orange, and Octavia smiles. “Eat up Princess. You’re gonna need your strength for tonight.”

Glimmer eats as much as she can for as long as she can, but Octavia finishes quickly. She is a large strong woman, and she eats like one. She swallows down the last fish tail and then slams a fist down on the table top, startling Glimmer. “Good eats,” she says as she stands. She pats her hard toned belly, and with a gesture, orders Glimmer up. With no other choice, the Brightmoon Princess stands.

Hope had blinded her when first she had entered the Brothel suite. Glimmer only now notices the rings and latches spaced around the bed, and the rack. There’s a display against the wall covered by shutters. Glimmer can guess what’s under them, but Octavia shows her anyway. She pulls back the shutters, and on the rack, it’s like an armory, but instead of weapons on display, it is what in Brightmoon one would discreetly call romantic aids. Sex toys, many of which are beyond Glimmer’s understanding. Coiling multi-pronged dildos, strings of beads, and constricting rings. Paddles and electric prods. A whip. Glimmer holds her breath as not to scream.

A hefty webbed hand lands on Glimmer’s shoulder, and squeezes. “What a night we’ll have, you and me,” Octavia declares in her low sultry growl. Then her claws bite into Glimmer’s skin, “I’m going to hurt you,” she says plainly, “just so you can’t say I didn’t warn you, I’m gonna hurt you tonight, and I’m going to enjoy it too.”

Glimmer’s knees buckle; she would fall if Octavia weren’t holding her so tightly. “Whoa, Princess,” the lady Force Captain says. She clutches Glimmer close and hugs her close to her hard green body. She runs her webbed hand through Glimmer’s sparkling purple hair, then takes hold of it, forcing her face up to her own. Octavia purses her lips, “How ‘bout I cut you deal first, sweetie?”

Glimmer nods. A deal? Whatever it is, she’ll take it, so long as she can save herself from some pain. 

Octavia steers Glimmer towards the bed, and with her superior strength, plucks the Brightmoon Princess off the floor and drops sits her up on the bed. It’s soft, like the beds at home are soft, but Glimmer takes no comfort. 

As she unbuckles her bustier, Octavia slides one of her solid muscular tentacles over her smooth green breast, now hanging free. “I usually like to top,” she says, “the way I see it, you don’t get to be Force Captain laying on your back, waiting for others to do the work. So when I fuck, I usually go in fast and hard, and leave the other girl begging for mercy before she even knows what happened.” Glimmer squirms in her place, but Octavia’s tentacles hold her steady, while the lady Force Captain’s hands hold her head still. “But tonight’s a little different,” she goes on, “I’m curious as to how they do things in fancy pants Brightmoon. So I’m gonna let you try and impress me. If you can, maybe I’ll go easy on you. That’s the deal.”

“Impress you?” Glimmer doesn’t know what she means, until Octavia starts slipping off her panties. Now naked but for her garter belt and eyepatch, Octavia pulls herself up onto the bed and leans back, knees apart. 

Glimmer thinks she understands. Her lips curl into a pained, nervous smile. “I’ll impress you,” she promises.

Octavia waves Glimmer closer, “You better.”

Glimmer leans forward, and Octavia lifts her thigh, granting access. Between her legs, the lady Force Captain is smooth, hairless. That’s normal; the cephloid race is not mammalian, and Octavia has no true hair anywhere on her body. Even on her head, her ‘hair’ is really a crest of tentacles and fleshy membranes. Still, Glimmer finds the sight of her bald vagina on a grown woman strange, especially on one as fulsome as Octavia. Strange or not, it doesn’t matter; Glimmer has to ‘impress’ her, and she will. That, she promises herself. 

Other than the green skin and the the hairlessness, Octavia’s vagina is different than Glimmer’s own human genitalia. Her inner lips, blue like her nipples and the lips of her mouth, protrude and flare out forming a smooth supple cup. More mysterious anatomy, Glimmer thinks, inhuman. She hopes theres no beak or barbs inside. Only one way to find out, and Glimmer can’t hesitate any longer. She follows Octavia’s own advice, and she goes in fast and hard, or as hard she can. She plunges two fingers in to the knuckle. Glimmer has still never made love to another woman. She’s never made love to anyone really; she’s only been attacked and abused. But this should work, right? To stimulate the gruff lady Force Captain.

Octavia’s cephloid vagina has a characteristic sucking shape, and it draws Glimmer’s fingers in. She pulls against the pulling pressure, and it’s like the rhythm sets it self. Octavia moans, “You got little baby hands, Princess.”

“Is it not enough? I can use more fingers.”

“No. It’s cute; the way you’re trying so hard.”

Cute? That doesn’t sound like impressed. The image of the whip among the various perverse devices on the rack flashes through Glimmer’s mind. She needs to be doing more. She pushes her face down to where her fingers work in and out of Octavia’s vagina, and begins exploring with her tongue. And it is an exploration before anything else; Glimmer doesn’t know what she’s going to find.

Glimmer’s tongue finds its way through the moist folds of Octavia’s cephloid sex, and touches a nub. Her clitoris. Perfect, Glimmer thinks, this should please her. Should, because Glimmer’s only previous experience pleasing a woman has been herself, usually in the bath, and usually after a bowl of ice cream. Paradise, lost. 

With a lick, Glimmer discovers that Octavia’s clitoris is two, and wonders if paired erectile structures are the norm for nonhumans, or just non-mammalian nonhumans. She doesn’t dwell on the thought long, delving deeper with her tongue. She parts the twin nodes of Octavia’s clitoris, massaging them at their bases, and then she strokes her tongue in a figure eight around and between the nodes. Octavia must be enjoying this, as Glimmer’s mouth is filling up her juices. It’s not the most pleasant taste, briny and viscous, but Glimmer welcomes it as a sign that she is doing well. 

Glimmer’s tongue continues in its ministrations, continuing the figure eight, then reversing its direction. Focusing on one node, then the other. Pushing them both together, and sucking, then pulling them apart. She creates a rhythm, quickens it, slows it, elaborates on it, breaks it, returns to it.   
Octavia moans deeply, more a hiss, and then reaches down to clutch the back of Glimmer’s head. She knows that feeling. She hates that feeling. It reminds her of Mantenna, forcing his dual cocks into her mouth until she choked, and keeping them there, even as she struggles to breathe. It also reminds her what she’s doing; performing sex on a sadist, who’s holding her against her will. In a second, it becomes all she can do to keep going, as a scream wells in her gut.

Claws scrape Glimmer’s scalp, as Octavia clenches her body and lets out a deep guttural hiss. Glimmer’s mouth receives a final gush of cephloid mucus, and then she is pushed back. Glimmer sits up, dizzy. Her jaw is sore, and so she opens it, allowing a splash of Octavia’s secretions to fall onto her dress. She’s soaked. 

Octavia leans back on one elbow. She’s laughing, panting. “A little sloppy,” she says, wiping drool from her mouth, “but not the worst I’ve had from a little kid, like you.”

“It was good though, right,” Glimmer quivers, “good enough?”

“Good? Sure,” Octavia grins deviously, “but good enough. Not quite.”

Glimmer is given no time to react. There is already a hand closed her throat. Octavia is choking her. Did she disappoint the lady Force Captain so gravely? Octavia has the strength in her arm to easily snap Glimmer’s neck, but she holds back. She pressed down just long enough for Glimmer to fall faint, but not unconscious. She wants her aware, but helpless as she fastens cuffs to her wrists and ankles, and chains her to the four corners of the bed. By the time Glimmer catches her breath, she’s can’t move. 

Octavia lunges, straddling Glimmer, as the bed creaks beneath her added weight. She lowers her face mere inches from her captive’s own, and grins, as her one yellow eye rolls up into her head. She is beyond lust now; she looks sexually demented. Glimmer screams.

“I don’t like a lot of noise,” says the lady Force Captain, “some folks do, but I think it distracts from the fun.” Glimmer keeps screaming. “So bite down on this.” A ball gag stifles Glimmer’s wails. A red one; classic. Octavia straps it behind Glimmer’s head, tightly. Too tight, driven far back, digging into the roof of her mouth, depressing her tongue. It’s an ordeal just to swallow. Following reflex Glimmer tries to scream more, but of course can’t. She thrashes instead, soaking herself in drool and tears. 

“Hush,” Octavia hisses, running a gentle finger down Glimmer’s cheek, “this is just the start, Princess.” With a single rip, Octavia tears Glimmer’s dress off her body, and takes in the sight of her victim’s naked body. “So young,” she rasps, “so soft.” A long tongue snakes up from Glimmer’s thigh, around her breast, and then to her ear. She whispers, “Still got your baby fat. How old did you say you were?” Glimmer can only squeal through her gag. “Just kidding.”

Octavia slides down Glimmer’s body, then rubs her cheek happily against Glimmer’s inner thigh, “How ‘bout I return the favor?” More muffled sobs. 

Octavia’s tongue is huge, like a fifth tentacle, anchored deep in her throat. It reaches deep into Glimmer’s vagina and fills it wholly. The lady Force Captain’s tongue has more give than a man’s penis, but it still hurts. 

With her fingers, Octavia works Glimmer’s clitoris. She finds it easily, and strokes almost gently, at least as compared to the undulations of her massive tongue. It feels good; too good, and too much. Overwhelming, especially as Glimmer struggles not to choke on her oversized gag. 

When Glimmer’s squirming becomes desperate, Octavia sucks her tongue back into her grinning maw, releasing her from the pressure. She knows it’s not over; Glimmer isn’t that innocent, at least. Chained down, she watches out the corner of her eye, as Octavia goes again to her rack of perverse instruments. Not the whip, Glimmer thinks; it’s all she can think.

Octavia plucks a few objects from the display; a clip, small and just one of them, a white egg-shaped vibrator, and most disturbingly, a taser baton. Octavia brandishes it over her helpless bound Princess, activating its electric arc. She waits for her to cry into her gag, and then she jams it down into Glimmer’s belly. Agony spasms through her abdominal muscles, and then it’s gone. Octavia finds her reaction amusing. She straddles Glimmer again, shocks her one more time, and then rolls the plastic egg over her belly, activating the vibration mechanism. In the hands of the mighty lady Force Captain, the toy looked reasonable, but pressed up against Glimmer, it becomes clear that the thing is ridiculously oversized. Octavia couldn’t be planning to insert that into her? It would almost be like a birth in reverse. 

Octavia pats her vibrating egg, still sitting on Glimmer stomach. “This might be a little much for you, sweetie.” To Glimmer’s relief, the lady Force Captain removes it and presses it between her own legs, hissing happily to its touch. “But this,” the clip, “is for you.” She pushes it close for Glimmer to see, and opens it, revealing the clip to have a single needle-like tooth. “Get ready, Princess.” One pair of tentacles wrap around Glimmer’s thighs pulling them apart, while the second set, use their tactile suction cups at the tips to spread the lips of her vagina. 

The tentacles are too strong; Glimmer cannot move from her waist down. She cannot even begin to struggle; she can only try and brace herself for what comes next. She holds her breath, and it begins with the bite of the needle into the sensitive nub of her clitoris. It pierces all the way through fast, and then comes the pressure of the clip, squeezing down cruelly on the wound.

The ball gag smothers another scream. Glimmer can’t stop screaming, convulsing, writhing in pain. Then, in the midst of that pain, the shock baton is added. Octavia uses it only for a second, laughing at her reaction. She watches the tangle of agony, then adds the shock baton again, and again. And again. Then she gives Glimmer a moment of respite, only so she can feel what comes next; the full thickness of a tentacle snaking up her vagina. Thicker, much thicker than anything Glimmer has taken there before. It stretches and tears her. She feels herself bleeding; she was already bleeding from the needle forced through her clitoris. Then starts the pumping, not as a rapid cycle of insertion and removal, but as a wave of tensing musculature flowing in and out of her.

Octavia spreads her own legs wider, pulling her vibrating egg deeper inside, pleasuring her body with the toy, as she pleasures her sick mind with the suffering inflicted on the young girl beneath her. As they rock together, Octavia reaches a monster’s paradise; the ecstasy of evil. She is thankful for the Princess and her anguish, and she shows it by kissing her around and through her gag, and licking her face. She pulls herself close and begins to whisper, “So sweet; tender. This is like,” she pauses to moan, “you remind me of another little cunt I had. The best one I’ve had, so far. I’m talking about the bitch who took my eye.”

Racked with pain, Glimmer can still hear. She has to listen.

“The cadets’ barracks, twelve years ago. This raggedy little scamp, thief, shirker, liar. I almost didn’t notice her among the other orphans, but those eyes. Blue and yellow, mismatched. What a cute little kitty she was. Only six, but a grown six, a wily six. Maybe too wily. I lured her into my favorite supply closet, even shared my illegal treats with her. And how does she repay me? The moment I touch her, she goes straight for my eye. She got away that day. But I got her. In time I got her. Right here. In the Slave Brothel, during her own short career here. I got her.”

Catra. That’s why she came to Glimmer. That’s why she’s coming back. Oh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This felt like a particularly sick chapter, and in places I felt tempted to pull my punches with my descriptions. From here on, I want to shift the focus of this fic away from the rape horror and more towards a progressing story. I think we'll be back with Catra's point of view for the next chapter.


	9. An Accident

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Catra's visits to the Slave Brothel of the Fright Zone have not gone unnoticed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> T/W for abusive language, and mention of suicide

Chapter Eight - An Accident

“I know you’re following me.” Catra halts in place. She’s wearing her stolen uniform of a standard Horde Trooper. With her hair tucked under the helmet, and her blanket cape replaced by a brown cloak she purposefully dragged through an oil slick, her message should be clear; stay away. 

Catra stomps her boot on the dirty street, “I’m not going to play this game with you anymore, Scorpia. I know you’re following me.” She stands still a moment longer, patiently. Then she howls out, “Scorpia.” Nothing. She storms back the way she came, and into an alley, to an industrial dumpster. Behind it, there’s Force Captain Scorpia, crouched low, with her claws crossed over her head. 

It takes a moment for Scorpia to notice she’s been discovered, but when she does, she forces herself into a relaxed position and awkwardly begins, “Oh hey, Catra. Fancy meeting you here. What brings you to this, uh,” she looks around, to the grimy under city of the Fright Zone, “nice neighborhood?” Scorpia’s wearing her usual personalized Force Captain’s uniform; no disguise. What was she thinking? Was she thinking?

Catra removes her helmet and scowls, “Go home Scorpia.”

Scorpia smiles, and her voice quivers; lying comes so unnaturally to her, “Sure. I’ll go home. Just keep on going where you’re going, and don’t worry about me.”

“I mean it.” Catra’s voice is low, sullen. Serious.

“Why?”

“That’s none of your business. Just go.”

“But you gotta tell me something. You’re out in the middle of nowhere. Like, I didn’t even know the Fright Zone went this deep. And you’re wearing a disguise. I’m worried about you.”

“Don’t worry about me. I’m fine.”

“But you’re not fine. You’re acting really weird. And I know this isn’t the first time you’ve snuck out like this.”

“You noticed?” Catra pulls off one of her trooper’s gauntlets and flexes her claws, threatening, “has anybody else noticed?”

“No.”

Catra growls.

“No, I swear. At least, I don’t think anyone else has seen you.”

Catra puts the trooper’s glove back on and asks, “This is taking way too long. What will it take to get you to go home and forget you saw me?”

“Well,” Scorpia clacks her claws eagerly, “you could maybe, tell me, you don’t have to be too specific, but I wouldn’t worry so much if you just, told me where you’re going?” Big smile.

“Fine,” Catra hisses, “let me put this in a real simple way that even you could understand. I’m going to a very bad place to do something you don’t want to know about. I’ll be back in the morning, and no one will even have to know I’m gone. Is that good enough?”

Plainly, “Yes.”

Catra turns around and goes to put her helmet back on.

Scorpia sighs, “Actually no. That just makes me more worried.”

Catra stays in place, and groans. She won’t face Scorpia. 

“Catra,” Scorpia’s begs, “you can’t just tell me that and leave. You’re making it sound like you’re mixed up in something bad.”

“Mixed up in bad stuff, huh? I guess I am,” whispers Catra, and then to herself, I guess we all are.

Chitinous claws grasp Catra’s shoulders, “Is is drugs?”

Catra puts a hand on Scorpia’s pincer. She goes to push it away, but instead just holds it there. “It’s not drugs,” she says.

“You can tell me. I know all about ‘the hooch.’ I learned about it in Force Captain orientation. They told me, ‘friends don’t let friends drink grog.’”

“It’s not that.”

“Is it black market goodies? I know those can be tempting, but they really do drain the Horde’s economy.”

“It’s not that either.”

“Then what is it?” Silence. “Can’t you tell me? Aren’t we best friends.”

“We’re not. So go.” 

Too harsh? It doesn’t matter, as long as she gets the message. 

“Well,” Scorpia huffs, “even if you, for some reason, don’t think of me as your best friend, that doesn’t mean that you aren’t mine. So I’m not going to let you get yourself hurt. I’m coming with you.”

Catra puts on her helmet. “I’m sorry you feel that way.” Catra flips backwards, aiming a kick high. She doesn’t want to hurt Scorpia; just knock her out, or daze her. Make her understand that she can’t follow. Scorpia’s too fast; she leans out of Catra’s arcing strike, and retaliates with a leg sweep, throwing Catra off balance as she lands. Catra picks herself off the grimy alley. Left claw swipe, parried by Scorpia’s chitin shielded forearms. A kick, this one aimed low, parried by Scorpia’s tail. A mad rush to the fellow Force Captain’s center of gravity, and Catra’s hands are pinned together above her head in the vice of Scorpia’s pincers.

“That’s not going to work, Wildcat,” Scorpia says, “not to brag, but I’ve never been defeated in one on one combat.” She puts Catra down. “I’m following you,” she speaks plainly, trying to match Catra in gravity, “now am I following you home, or to whatever weird place you still wanna get to?”

Catra grits her teeth and growls. Scorpia drops her, and stands still with her strong exoskeletal arms crossed over her chest. Then we’ll go home, Catra thinks, but her feet won’t go. She’s waiting, comes another thought. She could wait all night, and you won’t be there. It’s too risky that way, Catra knows; Scorpia’s naivety could cause a catastrophe. It’s dangerous, but she can’t turn back. She’s come too far, and formed her image too clearly in her mind. Catra starts walking. 

“So what did you pick,” asks Scorpia following behind. 

“Guess.”

Scorpia laughs baffled, but keeps following. 

They go down, deeper into the Fright Zone’s forgotten underworld. “So, it’s really not drugs?” Scorpia’s nervous; Catra can hear it in her voice. “Because, if it’s drugs, I think I understand. Like, you’re under so much stress right now, with your career. And Entrapta’s always on you about the Black Garnet and Shadow Weaver. I understand if you just need to forget it all, sometimes.”

Catra rolls her eyes. “It’s worse,” she answers, “a lot worse.”

“Worse than drugs,” Scorpia is genuinely startled. “Thats- Wow. Can you, uh, give me a hint?”

“If you’re scared you don’t have to follow me.”

“Nope,” Scorpia’s voice cracks, “not scared. In fact, I’m glad I’m coming. So I can protect you.”

The pair of Force Captains turn a corner, and beyond looms a crimson glow. Scorpia sees it, and further down the road, she sees the twin lanterns, and the throng of Horde citizens crowding beneath. “We’re going there, aren’t we?”

“Do you ever stop talking?”

They come closer; the place is packed tonight, and the people outside stick to the entrance like a clot to a wound. “Looks full,” Scorpia notes, “no room for us, I guess.”

Catra shoots Scorpia one last look through the green visor in her helmet, and warns her, “If you freak out when we get inside, you’re on your own. I’m not gonna babysit you.”

Catra pushes through the crowd, shoving fellow patrons aside. A few want to fight her, but she barrels forward; they cannot stop her.

“Wait,” Scorpia calls, and then carefully, she too pushes through. It takes a while; she pauses to say “Excuse me,” to everyone she bumps into.

Inside, the oppressive darkness and the beat of the music machine slam into her. For a moment, she thinks she’s under attack; Scorpia’s never heard music before. And then come the lights. They’re pretty. Her eyes follow them, down into the people, moving in synch to the sound machine. Scorpia discovers dancing in that moment, and lets her believe that this is a good place. Then her eyes follow the lights up to people, stripped naked, hung from the ceiling in cages. So many, and of so many different peoples. One, she sees, is a scorpioni, like herself. A woman. She’s tall, and her hair is darker than black. Scorpia feels a chill, and the feeling that she shouldn’t be here. “Catra,” she calls out for her friend in the dark. Don’t freak out, she tells herself; she told you not to freak out.

Scorpia tries to move, but can barely walk two steps before having to push through another throng of people. She calls out again, “Catra,” and she feels herself hit someone, hard. She’s knocked someone over. With her claw out to help, she offers, “I’m so sorry.” 

A dazed human woman sits on the floor. She takes Scorpia’s claw, and pulls herself to her feet. The heels of her shoes are thin narrow spikes. No wonder she fell. “No problem,” the woman insists, coming to her feet. She then reaches out, and boldly strokes one of the stripes of chiton that run across her cheek. Scorpia blushes and the woman notices. She speaks, “You are one tall stack of dame.”

Scorpia notices something, “You are very naked.” The woman giggles. “Like, I can see your cooch and everything.” More giggling. “Is that normal here?”

“Here? Where do you think you are, big Mama?”

“I,” a pause, “am not sure what you’re doing, or what you want, but I seem to have lost sight of my friend. I must be going now.”

Wantonly, the naked human clutches Scorpia around her hips, and Scorpia does reciprocate with a smile, but only to turn the girl around, and push her off. Alone again, Scorpia’s military training kicks in. She goes to establish a perimeter within which to search, and as she does, she spots a helmeted Horde trooper, wearing a stained cape. It’s her; Catra, and it appears to be as Scorpia feared; she’s standing by a tapped tank of syrupy blue liquid. Scorpia barrels towards her side.

Catra’s speaking with someone; a human male, marginally more clothed than the female who just accosted Scorpia. His chest is muscled and hairy. Scorpia thinks his codpiece is a bit much, but at least it covers his privates. As she approaches Catra, she hears the man speak, “Hey Killer. Back for your special girl?”

“You know I am.” Catra’s voice sounds grave, muffled through her helmet. 

Scorpia calls out to her, “Hey Catra,” and as she speaks, she notices Catra isn’t drinking; she isn’t even looking at the vile tank looming behind her.

Through her green visor, Catra glares daggers at her fellow Force Captain, and it occurs to Scorpia that she may be wearing that helmet because she doesn’t want to be recognized. 

Scorpia covers her mouth with her pincers, “Sorry.”

Scorpia catches the eye of the bare chested man presiding over the blue tank. He’s unimpressed, “That big dyke your friend, Killer?”

“Wow,” Scorpia winces, “that is strong, not wholly inaccurate language. Very, very inappropriate.” 

Another cold look from behind Catra’s green glass visor, then, “Yeah, she’s with me.”

“And did you bring her here to meet your girl too?”

“Your girl? Is that why you came here? Because you’re seeing another girl? And you didn’t tell me, your best friend?”

Catra rolls her eyes while the barman sniggers, “No matter how much I’d love to see this play out, I got some bad news for you, Killer. Your sparkly friend had an accident.”

“An accident,” hisses Catra. Scorpia feels herself drop away from her attention; she feels so suddenly alone. “What happened to her?”

The barman snidely purses his lips and answers, “A lotta things, possibly. That’s what they say ‘round here when someone can’t come out to play.”

“Tell me.”

“It’s usually no big deal. A little case of the clap, maybe. Or a date with Doctor Scrape; could be that. Or she might have got caught breaking the rules, and needs a little discipline.”

Catra reaches out and takes the barman’s throat in her hands. She squeezes, “Tell me!”

“A little hard to when ya got me by the throat,” rasps the barman in response.

Catra only holds tighter. Scorpia lays a pincer on her shoulder, “Catra stop. You’ll kill him!”

A feline snarl comes through Catra’s helmet, then she lets go. The barman falls back against his foul tank. “Again with the rough stuff,” he whines, “what are ya trying to do? Kill me?”

“You’re here. You’re already dead.”

“Catra,” a whisper from Scorpia.

The barman sticks out his chest, “And you aren’t, soldier girl?”

Catra cracks her knuckles, and the barman starts. “I am,” she admits, “but she might not be. So are you going to tell me what happened to her, or not?”

“I can’t tell you much,” he lowers his voice, “but I heard it was a medical thing. So sickbay.” His voice returns, “But ya didn’t hear that from me.” He sighs. “What is it with you and that chick, anyway? Gettin’ attached like that; it’s a bad idea. Especially here.”

Catra shrugs as she leaves, “Dead already, remember?”

She seems to know where she’s going, but Scorpia doesn’t. She follows anyway. Together they travel halfway across the Floor, before Catra notices she’s still being followed. She looks over her shoulder and up, at Scorpia’s face. Her eyes are huge; she asks, “What just happened?” She’s horrified. 

Catra offers plainly, “I came here looking for a friend. She’s hurt, and I want to find out why.”

Another question, “What the heck is this place?”

At that Catra stops and answers truthfully, painfully, “The Slave Brothel of the Fright Zone.”

“The Fright Zone has a brothel?”

Catra doesn’t answer. She lets the overbearing existence of the place deliver the truth. 

There are so many things Scorpia thinks to say, but all she manages is, “How?” Catra begins on her way again. Scorpia follows, “Like, there’s got to be laws against this. We’re Force Captains. We should be putting a stop to this. We should tell Hordak.”

“This place is bigger than us.”

“Who’s bigger than the Force Captains?” Scorpia finds the answer on her own. “Seriously?” Shadow Weaver.

They come to the back of the Floor, to the open doorways to the winding halls that make up the various Brothel wings. The exit is guarded, and so Catra pulls Scorpia to her side and links their elbows. The guards understand and let them pass. They’re out of the dark now, out of the noise. Down the hall, the two Force Captains find themselves alone, and Catra stops. She leans against a wall, and pulls off her helmet. Beneath, she’s panting, frazzled. She drops the helmet. The visor cracks as it hits the ground. 

Scorpia has another question. She asks it cautiously, “So is this what you’ve been doing?” 

A glare from Catra’s mismatched eyes.

Pained, Scorpia continues, “I’m pretty sure I know what a brothel is. You’ve been coming here, and exchanging currency for sex acts? Right?”

“They’re slaves. I don’t have to pay.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

Catra continues down the hall. She leaves her helmet behind. 

“Wait,” Scorpia says. Catra only walks faster. “How do you know about this place?”

Catra stops, but she doesn’t have any witty non-answers to that question. So she’s caught; still and seething. 

“Um, Catra?” No response. Scorpia prods her shoulder with one of her pincers, and that startles her. “Sorry,” Scorpia says, and then she asks, “where’d you go just now.”

“It doesn’t matter. Let’s keep going.” They do. Catra seems to know where to go. Scorpia thinks to ask how she does, but she knows better.

After endless turning in these grimy halls, the Force Captains come to a corridor blocked off by a gate, guarded by faceless Horde troopers. They draw their batons at the sight of oncoming intruders, and then one of them notices the badge stuck proudly to Scorpia’s uniform. He bows, and the other guard follows suit. “Madame Force Captain,” he says, “this wing of the Slave Brothel is off limits. But there are other rooms you and your friend can use. I recommend one of the suites.”

Scorpia doesn’t know how to answer; she just stops, while Catra pushes forward. In a clean smooth maneuver, she picks up the kneeling trooper’s baton from the floor, checks that its setting is on stun, and shocks him with it. He falls over, while his counterpart panics. She tries to surrender, but Catra presses her attack anyway, jamming the end of the baton into her stomach. With both guarding troopers incapacitated, Catra stops to take a breath, and sets her sights on the gate.

“That was an unnecessary escalation of violence,” Scorpia comments. She stoops to check on the fallen troopers. 

“They’re just knocked out,” Catra says. She puts her claws through the grate and shake it. It’s stuck. “Scorpia,” she calls, “can you get this down?”

“One of them probably has a key or something,” she suggests. Catra answers with a glare. Scorpia hadn’t noticed before how tired she looks. So, without a word, Scorpia goes to the grate and reluctantly, but easily shears through it with her pincers, letting Catra in. She pauses a moment, and follows in. 

Down the forbidden corridor is a row of closed rooms, the doors of which are shut tight. Catra goes to each of them, frantically reading the report pinned to each. She finds the one she’s looking for, and without a thought, kicks open the door. 

Scorpia’s afraid, she realizes. She’s been afraid this whole time, but the thought of what or who is behind that door chills her. A clatter from inside jars the lady scorpioni out of her fear. She dashes forward. The clatter, it seems, came from a medical bot dropping a tray. The thing makes an alarmed beep; Catra’s sudden intrusion has confused its simple AI. She kicks it into the corner, and its self preservation programming sends it running out of the room. 

At the other side of the room is a white cot, and laid down in it is a girl. Motionless, she’s laid down flat on her belly. Catra lays a hand on her back, and sighs, relieved. She feels warmth and the steady flow of breath. 

It doesn’t take Scorpia long to recognize the girl in the bed. Approaching the cot, she asks in a whisper, “Is that Brightmoon Princess? What’s her name; Sparkle?”

“Glimmer,” corrects Catra. 

“Glimmer, right. What’s she doing here?”

Catra looks up from the sleeping Princess, but keeps her hand planted on her back. She asks, “What did you think was going to happen to her?”

Scorpia stammers, “I- I don’t know. I thought she’d be in jail or something for her crimes against the Horde. And then, maybe, after she was rehabilitated, she could become a productive Horde citizen.” How foolish that sounds when spoken aloud. That’s not how we do things in the Horde, she knows. Deep inside, she’s always known that.

Glimmer won’t move, even as Catra gently shakes her. She leans in, and whispers in the Princess’s ear, “Glimmer, can you hear me?” 

Not even a stir in response. What’s wrong with her? She isn’t dead; however slowly, she is indeed breathing. Is she injured in some way? No life support system in sight. She’s just lying there, inert. It doesn’t make any sense. 

Glimmer lies naked in her cot, and so Catra peels down the blankets, trying to solve the mystery of what happened to her. Just on the surface, Glimmer is in rough shape. Most notably, from the contusions running down her skin. The follow a pattern, rows of two welts, following winding stripes across her body. Catra recognizes them as suction cups. Suction Cups. She stumbles back; she doesn’t remember how she lost her balance like this, but she almost falls flat on her face. 

As Catra struggles to catch her breath, Scorpia begins to talk, “I think I get what’s going on. She was sent here for punishment. It’s not a company; we don’t have those here in the Fright Zone. This whole place is a punishment.” For once, Scorpia’s words come out slowly; she isn’t sure of what she’s saying. Catra can’t hear her; she’s gone, deep into tormented memory. As slowly she emerges, Scorpia is still talking, “I helped. Catra, I was there, at the Princess Prom. I was the one who planted the bombs in Frosta’s Palace. I put the Princess in the flyer. She’s here because of what I did. I didn’t know.”

Catra finds Scorpia staring at her, and remembers she still has a standard issue stun mace in her hand. She sets it from stun to kill. 

Scorpia notices and asks, “Catra, what are you doing?”

“There’s someone I gotta kill.” 

Still racked with guilt, Scorpia asks, “Is it me?”

“No, it’s not you.”

“It’s not yourself, is it?”

Catra growls, “I told you not to come. I knew you’d learn things about the Horde that would hurt you. And now I have to kill someone, and unless you’re about to stop me, then you’re going down too. Your own fault.”

Scorpia falls to her knees, while Catra tests the kill setting on her mace. It crackles green when she holds down the trigger, casting her shadow to the doorway behind her. There’s someone there. Catra senses it, and turns round with a snarl. At the kicked in door stands a cephloid woman. Catra almost strikes for the kill; but she catches herself before her rage blinds her completely. This cephloid woman is thin, lanky even. Thin lipped and plain. She’s wearing spectacles and a white coat, a nurse probably. She has her hands up, “Please don’t hurt me,” she begs.

Catra lowers the baton. “What happened,” she asks. The nurse keeps shaking, hands up. Catra tightens her grip on her mace, “Tell me.”

“You mean the patient,” she stammers. Catra steps away from the bed, and lets the nurse approach. Still shaking, she reaches down, takes one of Glimmer’s limp hands, “See,” she says of the bandages wrapping round her forearms, “she cut her wrists.” 

Catra hisses.

“She cut her wrists, but one of the other slaves found her, and stopped the bleeding. She should be fine, but-”

“But what?” Catra has the nurse by the lapels of her jacket now. The thin cephloid lady loses her nerve. 

She sobs, while Catra wants answers. She shakes her, until she chokes out, “Her shoulder blades. Look.”

Dropped to the floor, the nurse runs. Her shoulders, Catra wonders. She hadn’t noticed anything on Glimmer’s back before, but bruises from cephloid suction cups. She turns the unconscious Princess over and looks again. 

Catra sees and remembers from their so brief and so precious night together. The Brightmoon Princess, daughter of the Angelic Queen, has wings, just little buds of wings, under her skin. Their shape, flat against her back, has since faded. They’ve lost their pink vibrancy, turning dull and grey, and her etherial feathers are frayed, and some, missing.

A hand on her back brings Scorpia out of her daze, as Catra calls her name, “Scorpia. Hey Scorpia. You’re a Princess, right? What does this mean?”

Scopria shakes her head, “I’m not really a Princess. Not like the others.” The twitch in Catra’s eye makes her look anyway. “Her wings,” she says, “the Brightmoon Queens they,” her knowledge is sparse, she struggles to explain, “they’re descended from angels. God-like people from ancient Etheria.”

“Glimmer’s a human. Brightmoon’s another human kingdom.”

“She’s mostly human, but the first Queen was an angel, even before the First Ones. Before humans. But the royal line still has wings. It’s a symbol, not just of the Runestone, but of-” Her voice fails.

“Of what?”

Gravely, “Of their immortality.”

Catra reaches for a fraying wing, but doesn’t dare touch it. “So she’s dying,” she says, then she snarls, “of what?”

“I don’t know.” 

Silence as Scorpia watches Catra’s heart break. Jealous, and frightened, Scorpia remains loyal. She asks, “What do you want to do?”

The question echoes through Catra. She knows what she has to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is me trying to move away from the porn cycle and towards a resolution. The suffering isn't over though. Things will get worse before they get better.


	10. A Hero Denied

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The righteous heroes Adora and Bow appear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a super short chapter to hopefully move this fic along.  
> T/W for violence, gore, and mention of suicide.

Chapter Nine - A Hero Denied

A few scattered sensations cross through the veil of coma and into Glimmer’s consciousness. A hissing voice orders, “Sign it,” and then that voice sinks to a growl, “I said sign it.” 

Darkness washes away more time, then someone says, “Death certificate checks out.” And from the same voice, “She didn’t last long.”

Answered, “She slit her wrists.”

“Bitch just couldn’t take it.”

More time devoured by unconsciousness, and somehow Glimmer can feel. She feels herself moving. She’s waking up, but so slowly.

“So remind me again what I’m supposed to do with this,” a voice squawks. Glimmer recognizes it. It’s Entrapta, Princess Entrapta of Dryl. But Entrapta’s dead. Does that mean she’s dead too, Glimmer wonders. Then this movement would be the flow of the River of Souls, bringing them to the next life. Glimmer doubts that. As a child, the priestesses of enlightened Brightmoon taught her not to take such matters of belief so literally. Glimmer is alive, if only barely, and Entrapta is alive too. Alive and talking to someone else. Someone who also sounds so very familiar.

“You wanted a Runestone, right? Well, I can’t get you one. So this is the next best thing.” Catra’s here too.

“You mean the corpse of my ex-friend is the next best thing to a Runestone?”

Catra snaps, “She’s a Princess, isn’t she? One with a Runestone. I’m sure you can learn something from her.”

Entrapta hums dubiously, “I could perform a dissection in my lab, though.”

“You can,” groans Catra, “but the Whispering Woods are riddled with First One’s ruins. Think of all the experiments you could perform between one of them and an Elemental Princess.”

A happy squeal from Entrapta, “Wow, Catra. Not even I thought of that. This bit of data’s going in my friendship report.”

“Thanks,” Catra doesn’t sound thankful, “Keep driving west. I’m gonna go check the back. Make sure everything’s secure.”

Entrapta sings, “Whatever you say.”

A door slides open, then shut. Glimmer feels something (a sheet she thinks) peeled from her face. Glimmer strains to move, but all she can manage is a fluttering of her eyelids. She glimpses Catra, staring down, shock across her face. From Catra comes the faintest whisper, “Did you just move?”

Glimmer tries to answer, but her lips barely manage to quiver.

Still Catra hushes her, “Don’t speak. You’re supposed to be dead.” Glimmer doesn’t try to respond again, and lets Catra continue, “You’ll be out of here soon. If you manage to survive, don’t mention me. And try not to let the Horde know you lived.” 

Glimmer manages to mouth, “Catra.”

A final whisper, “Just wait.”

Wait? For how long? 

Catra leaves, and Glimmer finds she doesn’t have to wait much longer. 

A loud pop shakes the vehicle from below, and it grinds to a halt, scraping the bottom across the ground. Entrapta flies out of her seat, “Catra, what was that? Are we under attack?”

Catra answers, “That’s impossible. The Whispering Woods are under Brightmoon’s Protection, and Brightmoon’s is in national mourning. All their troops have been recalled. We should be safe.”

Entrapta hides behind her prehensile twin tails, “Then you go out and look.”

“Fine.” Catra kills the power to her Horde ground buster, and pushes the door open. At first, it’s obvious what happened. Both front tires have ruptured, but why. Catra digs into the torn rubber with her claws and finds inside a tangled length of barbed wire, dug into both tires. What she sees is just a small segment of a long dragnet style trap, staked into the ground throughout this part of the forest. Catra manages to untwist a barb from the wire; the metal is brassy and cleanly forged. She recognizes the workmanship immediately. 

Pushing off the forest floor, Catra rolls back from the ruptured tire of her ground buster, dodging a golden arrow, heading right towards her. In midair, it erupts into a net, but only manages to catch the side of the Horde truck. Catra turns around, “Still using trick arrows, after everything?”

Bow already has another arrow nocked, and aimed dead center on Catra. “Not all of them are trick arrows. Some of them are just pointy.” Catra puts out her palms, a halfhearted show of surrender. Bow goes on, “You have some nerve showing your face here, Horde scum. This is Brightmoon land, and Brightmoon’s still in mourning.”

“And you’re not supposed to be here either. Didn’t the Queen recall all troops?”

Bow flexes the strings on his bow, “I’m not a soldier. I’m just the son of some scholars who live near by, and I’m not about to let filth like you in our land. Not after everything you’ve done.”

“Shame,” Catra points her thumb back to her ground buster and its torn tires, “cuz as you can see, I’m not going anywhere.”

Bow understand and lets his arrow loose, to which Catra ducks low with a split, and lunges forward. This arrow too collides with the broad side of the ground buster, exploding into a cloud of knock out gas, which disperses before Catra even takes a whiff. More tricks, she thinks, even after losing his best friend, Bow is too weak for a real fight. He doesn’t deserve her. With that thought, Catra aims a claw slash into the archer lad’s face. He parries it with his golden bow, giving him time to hop backwards and nock another arrow. Catra lunges with a kick. It barely touches her opponent, but it is enough to throw off his aim, sending his arrow into the ground behind her. 

Bow’s next attack is more straightforward. Using his bow as a quarterstaff, he strikes Catra across the face. The blow is solid and painful, but it isn’t enough to knock Catra off her feet. She lunges again, digging her claws into Bow’s chest piece, and throwing him into the ground. On top of him, she pins down his wrists with her claws and roars into his face before bashing his head with his own. 

On the other side of the ground buster, someone new emerges from the tree line and approaches. She checks first for anyone still inside, and finds immediately, yes there is. A lost Princess, presumed dead, cowering under layers of pink hair. Adora cries aloud, “Entrapta?”

Catra hears and recognizes her voice. Bow hears it too, and before leaving him behind, Catra lands a punch on his throat, and standing off him, stomps down on his stomach. She turns round, and sees on top of her stranded ground buster, Adora, still in her red Horde jacket. Having prepared her smirk, Catra delivers her line, “Hey Adora.”

Adora hops off the truck, and draws her sword, “Catra, what brings you to the Whispering Woods?”

Still keeping low, Entrapta lowers the driver’s side window of the truck and calls out frantically, “Catra, what’s going on?”

Always the hero, Adora calls back bravely, “Don’t worry Entrapta. I’m going to rescue you.”

Entrapta drops her twin tails from her face, “Great,” she says, no longer in panic, “from what though?”

This throws Adora off balance. She looks back and forth from Entrapta to Catra, and then does it again. She stammers, “From the Horde, of course. So don’t worry, you’re going home.”

“To Dryl?”

“Well, no. I’m afraid Dryl has fallen to Horde occupation.”

“Oh I knew that.” Adora’s face falls. “I think I’m going to have to decline on the rescue. Thanks, but all my stuff is back in the Fright Zone.”

Catra laughs. She hasn’t laughed in a long while, but genuinely she is amused by the confusion and despair on Adora’s face. To have a Princess back from the dead, and then to lose her like this; her hero’s role denied. 

“Why would she want to go back with you,” Catra taunts, “you left her behind, remember? She’s with us now, and together, we’re on a scientific expedition on behalf of the Horde, isn’t that right, Science Officer Entrapta.”

Entrapta shrugs, “It’s true.”

Catra laughs again as the information seems to short circuit her mind. Unable to understand, Adora turns to that can always trust without a doubt, which is her warrior’s strength, “For the honor of Greyskull.” 

A battle follows, pitting She-Ra’s magically gifted strength and First One’s forged sword against Catra’s agility and desperate instinct to survive. It’s a battle they’ve had before, and one that should fall quickly towards Adora’s victory. But she goes easy on the girl she once loved as a sister and maybe more.

Once again this battle doesn’t reach its true resolution, for Bow recovers from Catra’s attack on his throat and stomach, and fires an arrow. Catra feels the impact, and looks down to find the steel point of an arrow protruding from her belly. The wounds drips some blood, and she falls to her knees. Not bad, Bow.

There’s confusion as Catra slows her breathing and suppresses her pain; she doesn’t want to pass out, not yet. A belly wound, she tells herself, it hurts, but she won’t die for hours, days maybe. 

“Entrapta,” Catra gurgles.

Through her own screams, Entrapta hears Catra, and as the shock of it all thrusts Adora out of her She-Ra form, Entrapta comes to her side, and supports her in her hair. Catra reaches to her belt, and takes out a little remote controller. She coughs, and whispers, “Skiff in back.”

Entrapta takes it, her hand shaking, “What.”

“We have to escape. Don’t let them take us.”

“But the test subject-”

“Abandon her.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Does this mean Glimmer has been rescued? All should be well now, right? Not so much. And how did Bow and Adora know to wait in ambush in the Whispering Woods? We near the ultimate fate of Glimmer, Catra, and the Slave Brothel of the Fright Zone.


	11. No Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Glimmer and Catra go to the doctor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> T/W for surgical gore, mention of rape, and suicide

Chapter Ten - No Dreams

Glimmer feels it, but can’t believe it. It’s her bed, not some cum stained bedroll in the back fo the Fright Zone’s evil Slave Brothel, but her own bed from her own home. It’s the same plushy purple mattress she’s slept on since she outgrew her crib. Lying in such accustomed luxury, Glimmer asks herself, could it all have been a dream? More like a nightmare. Or is this the dream; a respite from her torment?

Thinking makes her tired, so she wont. She’ll enjoy whatever it is she’s feeling, for as long she can, without thought. 

“Chief Healer, come look at this.” a woman says. A voice over her sleep. There’s always a voice. Why can’t Glimmer just be left alone?

Another woman answers, the Chief Healer, “By the Moonstone, her pulse.”

“Not just that,” another woman, “look at her brainwaves. They’re coming back.”

“Chief Healer, what do we do?”

“What is there to do? Her vitals are stable. There doesn’t appear to be any danger. She’s just waking up.”

“But do we tell the Queen?”

“Wait just wait a while longer. It would be cruel to get her hopes up now.”

There’s silence. Glimmer enjoys it, and falls back to sleep. 

When Glimmer is conscious again, her mind is clearer, and still her old bed is beneath her. She is reluctant for a long time to trust her senses, but eventually, she has to. She opens her eyes. Her old bed is still here, but all this clutter; this is not her room, not how she remembers it. Instead of suspended from the ceiling, her bed has been taken down, set on the floor, while on each side of her is a resonant crystal mounted on a stand, connected to rows of screens, attended to diligently by the entire Royal Order of Medicine. They are the castle’s designated healers, and the room is packed with them, all women, and all wearing white robes and white veils. Glimmer makes eye contact with one through her thick spectacles, and she calls out, “Chief Healer.”

The Chief Healer looks up from one of the screens. She is marked special only by her crystal mounted magician’s staff, for her order is trained medicine and sorcery alike to maintain the health of the angelic Brightmoon Queens, though their immortal mistresses rarely need their help. Glimmer has never needed them in all her life, but here they are now, all of them attending to her. 

“Princess Glimmer,” the Chief Healer bows, “can you hear me? Can you respond?”

“Respond,” Glimmer repeats to herself, “I think so.” 

The room of veiled healers stare, dumbstruck. In the quiet, Glimmer thinks she may fall back to sleep, but the Cheif Healer grabs the shoulders of one of her underlings and shouts, “Get the Queen. Now.” She runs out of the room.

Glimmer sighs, and sinks deeper into her soft mattress. The Chief Healer approaches her, slowly, carefully, as if a wrong step could undo the miracle of the Princess’s survival. “Princess. How do you feel?”

In truth, Glimmer doesn’t know. She’s only beginning to come to terms with the possibility that she might not be dreaming. She can’t answer, but she does have questions of her own. Weakly, she points to the crystals surrounding her, and all the screens, “What’s all this.”

“Attunement crystals,” answers the Chief Healer, “for monitoring your signs of life.”

“Oh.” Glimmer feels something on her chest. It reminds her of suction cups, biting into her skin. She reaches into the gown, asking with some stress, “And what are these?”

“Don’t panic, Princess. They’re nodes. Also for monitoring your vitals.”

Glimmer looks down; only wires and tape, no suction cups. But the memory remains, even as Glimmer sits comfortably at home. No dreams; all of this is and was real. The comfort of the bed falls away, and Glimmer feels suddenly so very cold. “What happened,” she asks.

The Chief Healer exchanges some looks with her underlings. She answers, “You’re home and you’re safe. That’s what’s important.”

“Tell me. Tell me, please.”

“Well, it’s hard to describe,” the Chief Healer folds her hands into each other, “but there was a Horde incursion into the Whispering Woods yesterday. It was halted by-” By who? “By local heroes, who searched the wreckage and found you, Princess.”

“Me?” That doesn’t make any sense. The Whispering Woods? Glimmer doesn’t remember the Whispering Woods. She doesn’t even remember leaving the Fright Zone. What does she remember? A whole collage of fragmented memories. But her last concrete memory. Horror. Despair. Catra. She was a slave too. How or when, Glimmer doesn’t know, but if she’s the same age as she and Adora, she was thrown tho that sick place as a child. Glimmer in this moment retches, startling the crowd of healers. She remembers now the images, the thoughts which drove her to washroom behind the Slave Brothel, where she broke open a razor and took out the blade. Where she put a towel between her teeth so she wouldn’t scream and slashed through her wrists. Then blood. It hurt, but not for long. In time, the blood no longer felt like it was coming from her body. Rather, it felt like a rain from above, washing away her pain. 

Glimmer raises her hands, and studies her wrists. Freshly bandaged; no blood. A Horde incursion, she thinks. Did she do this? For her? Just for her? 

“Catra,” Glimmer doesn’t mean to say it aloud, but she does.

A confused voice calls out in return, “Catra?” Glimmer recognizes that voice, and looks up to see Adora’s hair poof poking out from behind the door jamb. She’s been watching this whole time. Of course has has; she’s Glimmer’s friend. Her friend who left her for dead; left her to rape and torture in the darkest pit of the Fright Zone. Don’t think like that. Not now. 

A presence comes and shoos Adora and her telltale hair away; it’s the Queen. Tall, pink, and regal, she folds her etherial wings around herself to pass into her daughter’s room. Glimmer cries out, “Mom.” Then come the tears. They start as joy, a relief so great it feels surreal. Then it’s frightening. Her dark fate has been upended, and all is suddenly unsure. What future does she have; what present even? She feels like she’s falling through life itself, and the tears keep coming. She’s drowning in them.

Glimmer feels her mother’s arms around her, and her wings too; holograms of hard light projected by the magic of the Moonstone. She thought she’d never feel them again. “Glimmer,” her mother’s voice, still so noble, but crackling with emotion. She holds Glimmer close and dear, and she cries too. 

The fear begins to subside as the shock of feeling her mother’s skin against her own sets in. This is all she wanted, she thinks. While the days in the Fright Zone passed with tedium, or the nights in agony, Glimmer longed to fall into her mother’s arms one last time. That impossible moment is now here. So why does she feel suddenly so angry? At whom? The Horde? Her allies who ultimately never came to rescue her? She doesn’t know, but the joy of her deliverance has been blotted out by an overwhelming black wrath. Glimmer squirms in her mother’s arms, and is released.

“Glimmer,” whispers the Queen. She smiles, and Glimmer is certain that is the first she has smiled since Glimmer she heard the news Glimmer wouldn’t come back from the Princess Prom. What a joyous reversal this is, and yet the rage remains. Queen Angella continues, “I’m so beyond glad that you are home alive and in one piece.” That’s what you think. “Please, my daughter, tell me. Tell me what happened.”

Glimmer opens her mouth, but no words come. The truth is a horror she cannot revisit.

Her mother presses, “Please. The Horde’s messenger said they had no reason to keep you alive. We were so certain you were dead. How ever did you come back to me?”

An easier question to answer. She thinks she may, but then a memory surfaces. It’s of Catra. What did she say? Don’t tell them about me, and don’t let the Horde know you survived. Something like that. She could tell her mother though, she thinks. Why not? She’s home now. Her life in the Fright Zone is over. Still, she answers with a half truth, “I remember Bow, and Adora. I couldn’t see them, but I heard their voices. I’m sure I did.”

Queen Angella looks over her shoulder to the open door to the outer hall. She gestures with her graceful pink arm, and Adora and Bow show themselves from behind the wall. Bow was watching too, not just Adora. He looks different. Not awash in celebration like her mother; there is a grave look in his eyes. What does he know? Glimmer worries.

Adora throws herself over Glimmer’s bed, shaking it to the frame, “Glimmer. We were afraid you weren’t gonna wake up. Oh, Glimmer.”

“Adora,” the Queen scolds, “careful. She may still be hurt.”

“No,” Glimmer insists, “I’m all right, really. I’m glad Adora’s here.” Why does none of that feel true? “And Bow, you’re here too,” then she asks for her mother’s sake as well as her own, “what happened?”

Adora and Bow exchange glances. They don’t want to tell her. What don’t they want to tell her? It’s Adora who answers, “The Royal Guard got a letter yesterday about a Horde spy in the Whispering Woods.”

“A letter,” Glimmer asks, “from who?”

Another awkward exchange of looks, “We don’t know. It was anonymous. They guards wouldn’t go, they thought it was a trap, but I had to check. Bow did too.”

Glimmer shakes her head; that doesn’t explain anything.

“We found Catra out in the woods. She had you in the back of a truck.”

“So she brought me to you?”

Bow finally speaks, “Not exactly.” 

Adora places a hand on his shoulder, and explains, “Catra wanted to use you for experiments with Entrapta. She’s joined the Horde. We had to fight them to get you back.”

Glimmer swallows, “Oh.” Then she asks, “Where are they now?”

“They escaped.”

Bow speaks again, “We think.”

Glimmer feels her heart sink, “What do you mean, you think?”

Bow’s eyes hollow, but Adora speaks plainly, “Catra was wounded in the fight. Badly. Bow did what he had to do to get you back. He should be proud.”

Bow doesn’t look proud. He killed her, Glimmer realizes. He’s killed her, or very nearly killed her, and they don’t want her to worry, so they won’t say it out loud. 

Catra sent that letter to the Royal Guard. Whatever experiments she had planned with Entrapta were just cover. She had set out to deliver Glimmer home, and for that, she was killed. 

Glimmer’s heart empties. She’s sad, but cannot cry for the enemy. She’s furious, but cannot rage at those who truly love her. She sinks back into her plush royal bed, and falls silent. 

Somewhere between the Whispering Woods and the outer rim of the Fright Zone,

“Catra, we have to stop. You’re bleeding out,” yells Entrapta over the roaring engine of the skiff she drives.

“I’m fine,” Catra gurgles in response, clinging to Entrapta’s back with one arm, while the other cradles the arrowhead protruding from her belly.

Entrapta slows the skiff, and says, “I think I could remove the arrow easy enough.”

“Drive,” Catra hisses, “we can’t let ourselves be captured.”

“But the Princesses. I’m sure they’d get you medical attention. They wouldn’t just let you bleed.”

Catra howls, “Never. They would ruin everything.”

“But what if you die?”

“Yeah, then what?”

Mercifully, the border to the Fright Zone appears in the distance, a massive concrete wall surrounding the entire city, with razor wire over the top, and battlements housing Horde troopers to ensure no attack from the Princess Alliance, and more likely, no escape for the Horde’s wretched citizens. 

Entrapta speeds towards the gated checkpoint, and stops. Into the microphone mounted into the wall, she shouts, “Force Captain wounded. Let us in.”

Static from the other side, and a dreadfully long wait. Entrapta parks the skiff, and holds Catra steady. Her blood has soaked down to the seat of the skiff, and lower, over its chrome siding. Entrapta feels some of it on her self, a splash of red down her back. Catra’s pain is incredible, and yet she makes no sound at all. She seems almost happy; she’s made it back. That’s what she wanted more than anything, even survival. 

By now the gate into the Fright Zone should have lifted. Something’s wrong. Entrapta repeats herself into the wall mounted microphone, “Force Captain wounded. Let us in. Please.”

The gate finally opens but the way is still blocked. Horde troopers, and a lot of them, standing in the road; batons charged, shields raised. Entrapta squawks in surprise and puts her hands up. She asks frantically ask, “What did I do?”

“Stand down troopers,” calls a voice at the back of the platoon. Its Force Captain Octavia, holding a high caliber blaster cannon at ease. She makes her way through her troops and commands of Entrapta, “Step away from the skiff, Science Officer. I’m not here for you.”

Entrapta can’t; not while Catra oozes blood onto the skiff behind her. Desperately, she pleads, “Catra’s hurt. Please, you have to help.”

Octavia rolls her remaining eye, and then, as she marches forward, swats her away with one tentacle. Entrapta falls onto the pavement, helplessly. She goes to Catra, dazed by blood loss and agony, and snarls. Catra keeps the same placid expression, not quite smiling. Octavia declares, “On the counts of insubordination and treason against the Horde, I’ve been ordered to take you in. Now, you don’t look much in a fighting state, little girl. So why don’t we go quietly.”

No answer. Just that same satisfied expression. Octavia grabs Catra by the shirt of her uniform and pulls her up off the skiff, “Didn’t you hear me? You got caught. Everyone knows you helped a Horde prisoner escape.”

Entrapta screeches from the ground, “Let her go. I can explain.”

With one hand, Octavia aims her blaster cannon at Entrapta, “Do you want to come too, Pigtails?” Entrapta wants to stay brave, but she balks, and Octavia turns her attention back to Catra, “I’ve been waiting to take you down a peg ever since Hordak promoted you Force Captain.” She strokes Catra’s face with a hungry tentacle, but still, no reaction. Octavia snarls, and drags her away, leaving Entrapta in the road, still on her knees.

Surrounded by soldiers, Catra is carried over the opened back of a ground buster, where Octavia throws her inside. The landing crushes her body against the arrow in her gut, and finally she does scream. Pleased, Octavia slams the door, and the ground buster drives off.

The drive that follows is dark and long, leaving Catra alone with the pain in her stomach. It will kill her eventually. Her captors have to want her alive for something later, or this is it. No matter what, Catra knows she hasn’t failed completely. 

The ground buster screeches to a halt, throwing Catra into the side wall, splashing it with blood. The rear doors open with a clang, and in the hands of Horde troopers, Catra is dragged out and onto a stretcher. She knows where she is now; she’ll live.

They put Catra on her side, as to keep pressure from the arrow impaling her midsection. Still, they strap her in before rolling her inside. How they have her, Catra can’t see much, just the flicker of the overhead fluorescents, until finally, she finds her self in an island of light at the center of dark and familiar operating theatre. 

The straps holding Catra to her gurney are snipped off by red claws, and carefully, Catra rolls over. “Modulok,” she rasps, and there he is, six legged, four armed, two headed, and crimson throughout his massive cobbled together body.

His second head, the one with green slit eyes, speaks, “Catra. My, how you’ve grown.” One of the hands on that side of Modulok’s body falls down on Catra’s breast, and the second head bares its fangs, grinning.

Catra scowls, “You gonna get this thing out of me, or not?”

The first head, with plain white eyes, answers, “Injury designation; abdominal puncture. Damage to feline subject; severe. Blood loss; severe. Estimated pain level; severe. Full recovery possible.”

The operation follows immediately. One strong cybernetic hand takes hold of the arrow’s shaft and snaps off the end sticking out of Catra’s back. She screams to the delight of Modulok’s second head, and that pain is only the beginning. Modulok has never been known to anesthetize his patients, and the process of removing the arrow and repairing the damage is slow and rough. 

With most of the arrow out, Modulok pushes Catra onto her back and begins to operate from there. With a set of shears, he strips her of her uniform’s vest, then dabs up much of the blood down her front with a sponge. Modulok’s many hands allow him to easily hold Catra down, as he goes into the arrow’s exit wound with a set of forceps. He plucks it out of her, beginning a torrent of blood. Modulok inserts a drainage tube and staunches the bleeding with a clotting agent before the repairs. 

Not all of Catra’s small intestine could be saved. In places the tearing to too severe, or the beginnings of infection are already setting in. Modulok wides the incision and enters with an energized probe, burning away unsalvageable tissue, before suturing Catra’s guts into a continuous pathway.

Toward the end of the surgery, Catra faints from blood loss, sparing her only the last wave of pain, as Modulok staples her belly shut. The final step is a blood transfusion, and then Catra is left to heal on her gurney sticky with drying blood. 

Horde troopers come to collect her later. Their orders are clear; to Hordak’s sanctum immediately.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Would you believe me if I said I have a happy ending planned after all of this?


	12. Wings of Darkness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Catra on trial. Then Glimmer settles back into her home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> T/W for rape and mention of suicide attempt

Chapter Eleven - Wings of Darkness

There are no courts or trials in the Fright Zone, no justice in the Horde, but only one man possesses the authority to deliver the punishment Shadow Weaver seeks for Catra. And that is Lord Hordak himself; only he can formally order banishment to Beast Island. 

So a meeting has been called in the warlord’s sanctum, presided over by Hordak upon his throne of scrapped steel. To his right side is Shadow Weaver, floating ominously. To his left is Catra backed by other members of the “super pal trio” Entrapta and Scorpia. 

The dark Lord of the Horde shifts tiredly in his bulky exoskeleton, asking, “Shadow Weaver. Why again have you pulled me from my work to settle your dispute?”

The eyes behind Shadow Weaver’s mask narrow, glaring down in Catra’s direction, “This is not my dispute alone. To betray the Horde is to betray you personally, my Lord. And Force Captain Catra has done just that in releasing Princess Glimmer to Brightmoon.”

Lord Hordak glares cooly at Catra, and then turns back to Shadow Weaver, “And why would she do that?” 

“Well, there have been rumors of Catra sneaking out of the Force Captain’s barracks for late night trysts with the prisoner. It’s obvious Catra let herself be seduced, and is now under the sway of the Princess Alliance.”

“Force Captain Catra, is that a fair assessment of what happened?”

Catra sways backwards and Scorpia catches her. She’s still dazed from the pain, and more, she is so tired. She’s had barely a moment to rest since her injury. 

Hordak snarls, “Force Captain, what’s wrong with you? Answer me.” 

Catra clutches her stomach and gurgles in pain. 

“You there,” Lord Hordak points a clawed finger, “who are you?”

Scorpia looks down; she knows Hordak doesn’t mean her.

Entrapta clears her throat, and steps forward awkwardly, “I’m Science Officer Entrapta, your, um, Hordeliness, sir.”

“Science Officer?” The title alone seems to soothe the warlord’s sour mood.

“Yes. Formerly Princess of Dryl, but that was a long time ago.”

“And what do you have to do with all this? Tell me everything, from the beginning.”

Entrapta strokes her chin with a tendril of prehensile hair, before she begins, “It was Catra’s idea to bring the Princess’s body to some First One’s ruins in the Whispering Woods.”

“Wait. Her body? Shadow Weaver, you said the Princess was released. It’s hardly treason to dump a corpse.”

“A death certificate can be faked, my Lord, as I strongly suspect this one was.”

“Fine,” Hordak then address Entrapta, “go on?”

“But we were ambushed. There was a fight.”

Shadow Weaver interrupts, “An ambush? How I doubt that. With Brightmoon’s troops recalled, how would anyone know send troops to that specific section of the woods, at that specific time?”

“A fair question,” judges Hordak.

“I don’t know,” answers Entrapta, “but I don’t think Catra arranged for them come. I mean, look at her. They shot her. She almost died. That’s why she’s all, you know.”

Catra groans, still held up by Scorpia’s claws. 

Hordak’s red eyes fall on Shadow Weaver; the warlord’s patience has waned to almost nothing. Still, the Horde witch is calm, “Wounded or not, that doesn’t explain why Catra would bring the prisoner so close to her home kingdom.”

“Yes, explain that for me, Science Officer.”

“I guess that’s because of the petition.”

“What petition?”  
Entrapta’s brow creases, “You know the petition to allow experimentation on the Black Garnet? I have some interesting theories on what we could accomplish.”

“I never received any such petition.”

“I sent it twice.”

Scorpia finally speaks, “I sent it once too. So three times? You really never got it?”

“Lord Hordak,” Shadow Weaver interrupts, “aren’t we straying from the topic at hand?”

“Are we,” wonders the warlord, absently. His eyes are on Entrapta, waiting for her to continue.

She does, “Long story short, I think with a sufficiently powerful computer and one of the elemental Runestones, I could be able to hack the planet. But no answer to the petition means no Runestone, so Catra said I could try with the Princess.”

Entrapta’s voice trails off and a long silence follows, as Hordak sits still. Finally, he speaks, “Send that petition again. If I don’t receive it in a week, I’ll have no choice but to order an investigation into bureaucratic fraud. And I promise, this investigation will be thorough.”

“But my Lord,” pleads Shadow Weaver, “your judgement? Catra has still betrayed the Horde.”

“Right,” the warlord stands, and descends from his throne, and to the feline Force Captain. She looks through him with unfocused eyes. “Shadow Weaver’s accusations are serious, but as of now, lack evidence. Still, your expedition to the Whispering Woods, scientific or not, has obviously failed, and the Horde does not tolerate failure. Let your wound teach you that lesson.” A sigh of relief from Scorpia, still holding Catra up for the warlord’s judgement. He notices this, and adds, “For now, I choose to believe that Princess Glimmer is dead, and you merely misplaced her body. But if anyone ever hears from the Brightmoon Princess again, I will know about it, and I will know you lied to me. If that day comes, I won’t send you to Beast Island. I will kill you, right here, by my own hand. Now begone, all of you. I wish to return to my research.”

All parties before Lord Hordak bow, and begin towards the exit to his Sanctum. As they leave, the warlord has one final question, “Shadow Weaver?” The witch halts. “Princess Glimmer’s ransom deadline ran out months ago. Why did you keep her alive so long?”

Scorpia speaks up, “Good question.”

All together, they leave.

Free from Hordak’s sanctum, Catra blinks, and then wriggles out of Scorpia’s supporting grip. She steadies herself onto her feet, still clutching her stomach, looks up at her fellow Force Captain, and says, “Thanks.”

Scorpia nods, “No problem. How’re you feeling?”

Catra sighs, “Not good. I’ll live though.”

A nervous laugh from Entrapta, then the question, “Does Hordak really want to hear about my theories?” She’s excited; happy even. Catra’s glad someone is, but she doesn’t get a chance to answer her.

“Do you really think you’ve won something today?” Shadow Weaver, no longer constrained by Lord Hordak’s watch, seethes in rage behind her mask. “You’ve just bought yourself time, and not much I’m afraid. Oh my wayward ward, while I cannot say I know what exactly you’re playing for, but I am sure you will never have it. The Black Garnet is mine; not Hordak’s to give, and not for your little Dryl goblin to steal.”

Entrapta, quietly, “Is she talking about me?”

“And as for your dear Princess, it’s only a matter of time before Brightmoon takes down its black flags, and Hordak will take your head. And then who will protect her?”

A hint of a smirk sneaks onto the corner of Catra’s lips. She says, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. She’s gone.” Catra begins to leave, taking Scorpia and Entrapta with her.

“I will have my Brightmoon heir,” the Horde witch hisses, “I will have her back.”

In Brightmoon Castle, a memory takes form in a dream.

In it, Glimmer feels herself lain across a thin bedroll, with her hands chained to the wall over her head. She’s on her back, and a man is inside of her. Her wrists are raw and bruised from fighting against her cuffs, and her face is covered with the drool of the man raping her. He’s another Force Captain. Glimmer hasn’t caught his name yet.

“Hey Grizzlor, make room. I wanna ssspin.” 

Right, Force Captain Grizzlor has her now, a large hairy creature from an unknown non-human lineage. He came to the Slave Brothel with a friend, a fellow Force Captain named Rattlor; a red scaled snake man. Rather than each of them finding a partner, they took Glimmer into a back room together, and decided to gang up on her.

Grizzlor keeps up his cruel pace, pounding into Glimmer, while grasping her head with one huge hand. “Wait your turn,” hisses the beast man, “I won our last arm wrestle. That means you gotta wait for my sloppy seconds.”

Rattlor wiggles the end of his tail, making the sound that earned him his name, “But you’re taking forever.”

“You can’t blame me for taking my time. Fresh cunt like this don’t come round all the time.” A fanged smile stretches over Grizzlor’s face, as he leans in close, forcing Glimmer to look up and into his eyes. “Nice and fresh, isn’t that right, Princess? They keep you good up in Brightmoon? Sure they do. Well fed; I bet you even have all your teeth.” With clawed fingers, Grizzlor pulls back Glimmer’s lips, and finds not only a full set of intact teeth, but that they are straight and white too. 

“That’sss one pretty mouth,” comments the snake man. “It givesss me an idea.”

Rattlor leans over the bed, to the bar to which Glimmer’s hands are cuffed. 

“Hey,” Grizzlor barks in mid thrust, “quit crowding me.” Rattlor does not heed. He releases Glimmer’s hands, and then takes them in his own. His serpentine grip cuts into her sore wrists.

“Flip her over,” commands the snake man.

Grizzlor is reluctant at first. He says, “Nah. I got a good pace going.” But then he sees his reptilian friend taking down his trousers, and he sees where this is going. With a sick grin, he grabs Glimmer by the thighs, and withdraws mostly. Then he rotates her before pressing her down onto her belly. Glimmer knows what’s coming, even before Rattlor sits down in front of her, and prods at her mouth with the rubbery end of his lizard cock.

The snake man speaks, “I heard ssshe’sss gotten real good at thisss now.”

Grizzlor laughs, now pounding into her from behind, “I’m sure she is, ever since she bit poor Mantenna on the knob. Now she knows what happens when she’s bad.” Glimmer doesn’t need to be reminded. She starts sucking, even as she is ravaged from the other side by Grizzlor. 

This is a dream, she realizes, but that does nothing ease her fear or her desperation. It still feels real. All that’s changed is she knows what’s going to happen. She knows how hard it will be to bob her head in place to fellate Rattlor as Grizzlor rocks into her. And she know how long this is going to take; the endless agonized waiting for one or the other Horde brutes to cum. They’ll be up for a couple rounds; she knows that too. Grizzlor will finish first, inside of her, and then he and Rattlor will switch places. Rattlor will then bring himself to a loud sloppy orgasm, mixing his own semen with that of his companion in this cruel act, while Glimmer is made to lick Grizzlor back to arousal. Then it will start again. 

Glimmer wakes up. She’s in her bed in Brightmoon. They never reconnected it to the ceiling; it’s on the floor. Not the same, but at least the Royal Healers are gone now, with this humming crystals and intrusive screens.

It’s night, so entirely dark and still. It is a friendly dark, restful, enveloping, restful, but Glimmer doesn’t feel even the slightest tug towards sleep. She’s wide awake, laid on her back, staring up at nothing. Restless, she stirs, and her soft covers let her go. 

Though her room is dark, she navigates it easily, moving towards the balcony, to the open sky of the night. 

Even with the stars absent for a millennium, the night sky over Etheria is far from blank. There are the world’s night moons, engaged in their slow, sure dance behind and around the clouds. And there is the Moonstone; the sacred heart of the Kingdom, and her birthright as heir to the throne. It shines too over the castle.

Glimmer feels now, for the first time, not the privilege of her inborn position, but the burden. All this, the castle, the Kingdom, the holy Runestone, and herself; broken and defiled, and still expected to hold it all together. Here again comes the rage. That black wrath at her friends and enemies alike. At herself even, and at the Universe on whose cruel whims she is swept. How can the Universe ever make right what has been done to her? Glimmer’s teeth clench until her jaws hurt. She can feel the anger like a physical sensation, a molten tar seeping into her skin. She thinks she can see it too; the darkness falling over the bright moons and the holy Runestone. Spreading out, forming a shape. Wings, angelic wings, but not of hardened light. Wings of darkness, blotting out everything.

Glimmer wakes up, truly this time. She is in her bedroom in Brightmoon Castle. The light of day drenches her chambers, and she is screaming. 

“Princess, Princess.” It’s one of the royal healers, suddenly by her side; one of so many robed veiled women. Glimmer doesn’t recognize her as such, not at first. She only feels hands on her shoulders, holding her down. Afraid, Glimmer thrashes in her grip, until the healer speaks again in a kind and timid voice, “Princess, tell me. What’s wrong?”

Glimmer halts as she understand finally that this is real, and there is no one there to hurt her. A pained breath, and then she lies still. 

She answers the healer’s question, “Just a dream.”

A blank look from the veiled healer, who concludes, “More nightmares then.” She lets Glimmer go to study one of the consoles that still litter Glimmer’s old room. “Vitals stable. You are unharmed. Shall I have the kitchen make your breakfast?”

Glimmer answers, “Sure,” but only so the healer would leave. 

Alone now, Glimmer untangles herself from her covers, soaked, she finds, with cold sweat. She has to change; her nightgown is soaked too. She should bathe too. How she longed for the luxury of a Brightmoon bath, while a slave in the Fright Zone, but now that she can have when any time she wants, she finds they don’t feel the same. Nothing does.

From her vast wardrobe, Glimmer takes the simplest of outfits; a leotard and a dark cloak to wear over it. Then she leaves before the healer returns to try and summon her to breakfast. She doesn’t feel like eating.

Through the halls of Brightmoon Castle, Glimmer sets herself to wandering. Even with her freedom returned, her itch to escape remains; wandering helps, and as she does, she begins to wonder. Was that Healer assigned to watch her all through the night? Do her friends and family not trust her to sleep alone now? Surely, they’re just worried about her. The dreams, the nightmares. On her first night home, Glimmer woke the entire castle with her screams. The guard had been certain the Horde had come to take Glimmer back, but it was just the dreams. The dreams that come, without exception, every night since coming home. 

In a way, Glimmer’s slavery in the Fright Zone’s Brothel still hasn’t ended, for in her dreams, she is still there, living and reliving her torment. As if the rapes defiled not just her body, but her mind, her very essence so no matter where she goes or what she does, the trauma follows her like a cloud that only she can see. 

At least back in the Fright Zone she had a hope, no matter how faint, of rescue. Now that rescue has come, hope is gone. What can she do now? Stop sleeping? Glimmer did try that. She made it through a full night, and halfway into the next day before sitting down to rest her eyes, only to find her self back in the Slave Brothel of the Fright Zone. 

So, out of concern for the screams, Glimmer’s friends have a Royal Healer watch her sleep. A Royal Healer who does nothing while she squirms through the night, and when she wakes up screaming, checks her vitals, which are always fine.

Glimmer remembers something from when Adora first defected from the Horde. She couldn’t adapt to life outside the Fright Zone. Things like having her own room, or a bed beyond a simple bunk were just too alien to her, so Glimmer and Bow set up a simple bunk for her, and spent Adora’s first nights as a guest of Brightmoon, sleeping on the floor beside her. But for Glimmer now, they have a Healer, standing by. 

Be fair, she tells herself. This is a different situation. The coming of the fabled She-Ra into the fold of the Princess Alliance was an unambiguous cause for celebration. And is Glimmer’s return not? Well, she has come back to a strained Brightmoon. 

She can tell her capture shattered the Kingdom. Especially as they all believed she was dead. The Queen grieved a daughter; she declared national mourning. And Bow and Adora? They aren’t the same. There’s a distance between them, and Glimmer can easily guess why. They parted ways after Glimmer was taken from them. Now their friendship has been abruptly forced back together for Glimmer’s sake; so things could feel normal for her. They’re trying; her friends and her mother are trying to welcome her back with grace and understanding, but Glimmer can tell, it’s hurting them. 

They know she has suffered, so they suffer too. Glimmer can see it in their eyes; the unspoken guilt and shame. She can feel it too, like a cloud following her, and cast upon those who love her. They’re avoid her. That’s the truth, not the wrath bending her reason. That’s why she’s left to sleep with a Royal Healer, as faceless as the Horde’s troopers, instead of her friends. That’s why when they come to see her, all they say are empty pleasant things. Like, we’re so glad you’re back, or (more recently) we’re just glad you’re back. They never just wait and listen to her. They’re too afraid of what they might hear. But that’s empathy at work. There is no empathy in the Horde, and maybe they’re right to have it for all the good it does.

Glimmer reaches the gardens overlooking the scenic waterfalls off the east wing of Brightmoon Castle. Usually that’s a good place to stay when she wants to be alone (all the time now) and she’s tired of her wandering. Usually, but not today. Today, there are people among the fragrant flowers and gently swaying boughs. Her mother the Queen, Adora, and Bow. All her most beloved people. In another time, Glimmer would rush out to join them, but now she is suspicious. What are they all meeting like this for? Are they talking about her? Glimmer hides herself and listens. 

Of course they are.

“-not once. Not at all since you returned her to us have I seen Glimmer use her powers. And that frightens me.” That’s her mother speaking.

Bow reasons, “Glimmer told one of the Healers that Shadow Weaver put her under a spell that blocked her powers. She said she used the Black Garnet. Maybe Runestones cancel each other out.”

“But the Black Garnet’s on the other side of the Whispering Woods, in the Fright Zone. Whatever effect it could have on Glimmer should be gone now,” Adora now.

“Maybe she’s just tired. Like, after all she’s been through, she just doesn’t feel up to teleporting.” After all she’s been through? What does Bow know about what she’s been through? What do any of them know, really? They must know about all her scars from the Healers’ thorough inspections. The scars on her wrists, the ones that tell of her sin; her rejection of the Universe’s sacred gift of life. And what of the other stuff; the real bad stuff? Did they know the Horde had prostituted her? Days ago, Glimmer noticed a small wound on her inner thigh. The contraceptive implant; the Healers removed it. Did they even know what it was? And if they did, did they know what it meant? And if they knew what it meant, did they pass that knowledge along to her mother? Glimmer doesn’t know. She can’t know, and that’s horrifying. 

Queen Angella speaks, “If she’s so tired, she should come to the Moonstone and recharge. She hasn’t recharged at all since coming home. I can feel that, through the Runestone, and that makes me worry.”

Bow puts a hand on the Queen upper arm. “It’s Glimmer,” he assures her, “Moonstone or not, she’s Glimmer no matter what. We have her back, that’s all that matters, right?”

The Queen gently touches the hand Bow has offered her, but her voice is grave, “Her wings are still gone.”

Bow and Adora exchange looks, and the vessel of She-Ra asks, “What does that mean?”

No answer, so Bow asks too, “Your Majesty, what does that mean?”

Glimmer can’t watch anymore. Desperation flings her from the shadows, and she calls out, “What are all of you doing out here?”

Bow jumps a whole foot. He never could hide his guilt. Good, sweet Bow.

The Queen though, she lies easily, “We were planning a picnic. We were just about to invite you.”

Glimmer forces a smile, “A picnic sounds nice.” And she joins them, and they call for the kitchen staff and they all have a nice picnic out in the gardens overlooking the waterfalls. And Princess Glimmer smiles through it all, even as she knows that this sunny morning will end, and tonight she will go to sleep and dream of rape and torment with only the vision of dark wings to deliver her from torment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bow's heart is so pure. I feel guilty dragging him into such a twisted story.


	13. We're Good at Quests

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I was stuck on this chapter for a while, so I rewatched the first episode of season four and stole its structure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> T/W for discussion of rape.

Chapter Twelve - We’re Good at Quests

She pulled the Queen card. Her mother called her to a special dinner, and when Glimmer told her she didn't feel like it, she reminded Glimmer that she is the Queen, and can make her. So far, Queen Angella has allowed Glimmer to scrounge for herself, and eat on her own at her leisure. But not this evening.

This could mean so many different things. Has the Queen finally felt the weight of the distance and silence between herself and the Princess and is now willing to address the obvious? Or maybe this is about her missing wings, and her birthright as Brightmoon’s next queen? Glimmer remembers what she overheard before the sham picnic; the worry in her mother’s voice over the divine mark Glimmer never asked for. She hopes it’s not about that. She doesn’t think she can be the next Queen, not after all she’s been through. She’d be as happy as she could be if this dinner meeting is to relieve her of her title, and allow her to slip into obscurity as a commoner. She doubts that. 

Glimmer decides she has worried for long enough, and heads through the polished hallways of Brightmoon Castle for the private banquet hall. She even dresses for the occasion, wearing a vest over her leotard, and a cape with an inner layer of sparkle. Give her a chance, Glimmer thinks, maybe she really wants to make things better.

She can’t help but hesitate before entering dining room, but she goes in anyway. Inside, the long table is set only at the far end, with the Queen at the head of the table, and Bow and Adora at either side of her. Her mother greets her, “Glimmer, you’re here. I made your favorite.” On the table is an enormous potpie, far too much for only four people. The Queen corrects herself, “Well, I had the cook make your favorite.” 

She’s right, that was her favorite. Glimmer sits down next to Bow. He smiles at her. So does Adora, with a matching rictus of compassion. 

“Come now,” the Queen announces, “let’s eat.”

They do. Glimmer’s favorite, the potpie, tastes even better than she remembers. She isn’t very hungry though. 

Maybe this is all the Queen wanted, Glimmer thinks to herself, just a dinner with her daughter, to remind her that she still cares. Maybe that’s all Glimmer needs. She nearly smiles. She has more room for potpie than she thought. 

“Are you enjoying your dinner,” asks the Queen.

Glimmer nods with a mouth full of food. Real food. Not the Fright Zone’s bland bricks. She notices how quiet Bow and Adora are. Maybe that’s all right. They need to get used to just being with each other again, before they can fall back into the habit of small talk and inside jokes.

“Good,” the Queen says, and then she watches Glimmer eat for a moment longer before she speaks again, “I didn’t call you all here just for dinner.” Of course she didn’t. Glimmer deflates. “I have been meaning to speak with you. All of you, but especially you, Glimmer. My daughter. My dear daughter.”

Glimmer swallows her last bite of dinner hard, and looks around at the table. Her friends wont meet her eye; their faces are fixed to that of Queen Angella, who goes on, “I have something that I need to admit to you. I’ve been afraid.”

Glimmer feels her mother’s eyes upon her. Really on her, not through or around her. The feeling is warm, and Glimmer meets them, and sees that the Queen tells the truth. There is fear there, in her face, but a resolve as well. “When you were gone to that horrible place, I grieved; I was certain I would never love a living daughter again. When the possibility of your survival arose, I promised myself that if you lived, I would rejoice no matter the state you were in. But I wasn’t brave enough to keep that promise.”

Unsure and embarrassed, Glimmer looks down to the floor. “I’m fine, Mom,” she lies, “you don’t have to be scared for me. Actually, you’re scaring me.”

The queen sighs painfully, “Your wings, Glimmer. They remain missing.”

Disappointment. This isn’t about me at all, Glimmer thinks, just her role as Princess. She says, “I think I know what this is about.”

To her child’s dour voice, the Queen sounds hopeful, “Do you? Because I have no idea.”

“Sorry.” Glimmer means it; she hadn’t meant to sound so harsh. 

“It’s the uncertainty that frightens me. Much about the angels you and I are descended from is shrouded in mystery. To lose one’s wings could mean nothing at all, like a bird molting. Or it could be a sign of a sickness, or worse; a curse.” The Queen takes a moment to choke back a sob. “Whatever it means, I realize now that I can no longer wait and hope that your wings grow back, and for you to be fine. I have to intercede for your sake, as well as my own.”

“What are you going to do,” asks Glimmer, nervously.

“Something, a bit unorthodox.” She looks to her daughter’s friends, “Bow, fetch the lantern. Adora, the cloak.” Her closest friends stand up, and do as they are told. Glimmer hadn’t noticed before, but at the far corners of the dining room, there is a lantern and a white cloak, trimmed with gold. 

Her friends show these things to her. “Surprise,” Bow says awkwardly, holding a crystal light on a gold ring.

“Mom, what are these?”

“When my own mother, the Queen before me, ascended, I journeyed deep into the Chamber of Queens beneath Brightmoon Castle to solidify my bond with the Moonstone. The touch of our Runestone is born into all of us with angelic blood, but it is the ritual performed in the Chamber, which gives us true power.”

“But Mom, you’re still here.”

“Yes I am, which is what makes what I am about to ask of you so unorthodox. I have not once seen you teleport since your return. You can’t. Is that right?”

Glimmer nods. She still doesn’t understand; she’s becoming frightened.

“I want you to journey into the Chamber of Queens, now, while I still live, like none other of our bloodline ever has. There is power hidden there, knowledge. Perhaps you can find answers and, with the Universe on your side, restoration of your wings.

Bow and Adora with the lantern and cloak feel to Glimmer like they are closing in, squeezing her in her own personal space. She crosses her arms defensively. “I don’t need answers,” she mutters, “I don’t even know if I need my wings anymore. I’m fine, Mom. Tired, but fine. I don’t want to do this.”

“But you’re not. You scream all night, while during the days, you barely speak to me or your friends. I want things to be better than this. I want to be the mother you deserve, and I promise to change, to be there for you finally, and I will. After this.”

“She’s right,” Adora speaks abruptly, “We- I haven’t been here for you. I still don’t really know what you’ve been through. What you’re still going through. I want to change too. I want to be here.”

“I do too,” Bow adds, “I feel like, since you’ve come back, all I’ve wanted to do is celebrate. I just don’t understand why you don’t want to too? I’ve been so confused, but I’m ready to listen. I should have been listening from the start, but-” Bow starts to tear up, “I’ve been a bad friend.”

A single laugh sneaks out of Glimmer. How has she forgotten how dear and kind Bow is? Glimmer feels the purity in his heart, but the distance too. Is it too much to hope to someday close that distance, and be his friend once again? She should try, if they’re willing to try. But does she have to do this ritual? Why should she have to do this? Why can’t they just talk to her? Does she even want them too?

“I’ll do it.” Glimmer says it before she thinks it. “I don’t know what I’ll find out. Maybe nothing, but I want things to change too. I’ve been through a lot of really bad stuff. Stuff that I don’t really know how to talk about. But I’ll try, if you will.” 

From behind, Adora approaches. She drapes the royal ceremonial cloak over Glimmer’s shoulders. It’s too big, comically so.

“I can fix that,” says the Queen.

The tunnels leading to the Chamber of Queens lay behind a waterfall, parted by magic. Glimmer steps inside, her now fitted cloak swaying gracefully behind her. She is followed by dear friends, Bow and Adora. Behind them, the waterfall closes, leaving them at the mouth of a bore, lined with scattered luminescent crystals. 

“Sorry,” Bow says from behind her, “I got emotional back there. I didn’t mean to make things awkward.

Glimmer answers, “It’s okay,” then she quickly asks, “we just go down?”

Adora passes her, brandishing her sword. “Yes,” she speaks excitedly, energetically, but still artificially, “this is a quest, so we have to venture forward into the unknown. Come on. We’re good at quests.”

Bow follows her, “Best friend squad on a quest. Just like old times.”

Old times, thinks Glimmer, is that what they meant by change? A change back to the way things were. Maybe they can go back, but Glimmer can’t. Don’t they know that by now? Have faith, Glimmer reminds herself; they’re still your friends, and they’re trying.

They begin down the passage, and it isn’t long before they find the first signs of intelligent intent, as the dirt of the tunnel gives way to patches of artifice. Bow pauses to inspect a relief carved into the wall, that of a pair of wings holding up an abstract design. Inspired now to break the silence, he asks, “So if part of this quest is to find out more about the angels, then where are we starting from? Who were the angels?”

Repeating the lessons from her mother, Glimmer answers, “They lived here on Etheria, even before the First Ones.”

“How could there be people before the First Ones,” asks Adora, “I mean, being first is in their name.”

“Because they weren’t people. They were made of light, and lived outside of physical reality.”

“What does that mean?”

“I don’t know,” Glimmer says. “Maybe we’ll find out.”

Glimmer takes the lead, and behind her, Bow asks, “So they’re weren’t human, but-”

Tiredly, Glimmer interrupts, “They weren’t beast people either.”

“I wasn’t saying they were.” Then after a pause, “Not that there would be anything wrong with that.” Of course Bow wouldn’t think so. He’s a good person. The human lead Runestone Kingdoms of Etheria are full of good people who hold nothing against their non-human neighbors, so long as they know their place. And even then, if some non-humans don’t know their place, then they’re just judged as bad individuals, not reflections on their species. 

Glimmer sighs, as she feels the need to speak. “Hey Adora,” she begins.

“Yeah?”

“I met Catra, while I was held prisoner by the Horde. Like, not on the battlefield like before. I really talked to her.” The longest silence follows. “Do you know why she didn’t come with you, when you joined the Princess Alliance?”

Adora lets out a long breath, and Bow speaks up, “Maybe we should talk about something else.”

Adora considers that, but says, “No Bow. It’s okay.” She stops and let out another long sigh. “I’ve thought about that a lot,” she says, finally, “but I really don’t know. I was so sure she would, when I found out the Horde is evil. But then she told me she already knew. She was always smarter than me, and she never liked rules. Even now, I don’t know why she didn’t jump at the opportunity to leave the Horde, even if it was just to spite Shadow Weaver.”

“So you don’t know.”

“Did she tell you?”

“Honestly, she didn’t actually say much, but I feel like I got to know her.”

A spark of hope enters Adora’s voice, “How’d she seem? Did you think she’s starting to come around at all?”

Glimmer doesn’t know how to answer that. So instead she asks, “Catra’s a magicat, isn’t she?”

“What’s a magicat?”

That was not the answer Glimmer expected, but still, she answers with the best of her knowledge, “They were a beastrace. A long time ago, they had their own kingdom, but it collapsed. They didn’t have a home so they became nomads. Entertainers and merchants mostly. Kingdoms like Brightmoon tolerated them for a while, but some of them were thieves too. Over time, they were locked up or killed. Mostly killed. I used to think they were extinct, but there’s Catra.”

A sad murmur from Bow. 

“It’s okay, Bow,” Adora says, “you saved me, and Glimmer. Catra made her choice, I guess.”

Did she, Glimmer thinks. Did any of us?

The tunnels are a straight path down as the trio nears the Chamber of Queens. Further beneath Brightmoon Castle, the concentration of luminescent crystals increases, brightening the tunnel with cool shades blue and purple. These walls are not touched by dirt; the ancient reliefs are clean and bare, telling stories of ancient angels in a forgotten pictographic language.

The gate to the Chamber of Queens lies ahead, a construction of purple stone reinforced by a circle gold, in which is another series of strange pictographs. “I got this,” Adora says, bounding forward to inspect the writing. She finds out quickly this is not in the First One’s writing that only she can miraculously read.

Glimmer puts a hand on Adora’s shoulder, guiding her away. “No,” she says, “this is for me to do.” Doing her best to decode the pictographs with just her intuition. She steps back and envisions the circle of symbols as a clock, perhaps showing the life cycle of the angels. Beings who begin as a spark, which blaze into glorious wings, and then burn out, leaving behind another spark in an infinite cycle of light and life. 

At the center of the circle is a raised plate of gold, reflecting like a mirror. A spark, Glimmer thinks, the spark of light that is the beginning and the end for angel kind. She thinks she knows what she is supposed to do. Glimmer lays a hand on the plate at the center of the gate. It has been a long while since she last used her magic. Not since Shadow Weaver’s spell channeling the Black Garnet, and even later, out of that spell’s range, home in Brightmoon. She hasn’t yet tried to use her magic, because she doesn’t want to find out that she can’t, now without her wings. How badly does she want to find out now? 

They’re trying, Glimmer reminds herself. Things will get better, not like the way they were, but better. Glimmer reaches deep within herself for the memory of photokinesis, a comparatively weak offensive spell, but enough, she thinks, for the gate to recognize her. It does. The symbol for spark at the very top of the circle lights. Glimmer plants her feet, and delves deeper still. She can feel the magical mechanism within herself still there but tired, forgotten. She has to remember. She does. The second symbol alights, but that is all she has. Glimmer’s concentration slips, the glowing writing powers down.

Behind her, Bow asks, “Did it work?”

A series of mechanical clanks echo behind the gate. “It worked,” Adora declares.

The golden plate at the center of the gate turns and with a groan, the sheet of stone detaches from the tunnel around it and slides down, then away. Behind it waits an orb in the dark, a vibrant glowing blue. It blinks. It’s an eye. A single enormous eye emerging from Chamber. Beneath the eye a mouth opens, that of a worm, a monster with many short pointy teeth.

Glimmer stands firm. Another test, she wonders. She doesn’t get a chance to find out, as rings the battlecry, “For the honor of Greyskull.” A flash of blonde hair and red cape sweeps past her, as the mythic sword of She-Ra collides with the creature’s head. It glances off the huge pink eel, not damaging it, only attracting its ire. 

Bow demands, “Glimmer get down.” A pair of arrows then whiz by her face, to ricochet off the monster’s thick hide. 

Wait, Glimmer wants to say, “Wait. Don’t hurt it,” but suddenly she’s in the strong arms of Adora’s She-Ra form, as they flee away from the creature, from the Chamber, from Glimmer’s fragile hope. 

Adora in her robust empowered form speeds up through the tunnel, carrying Glimmer over her strong square shoulder. “Let me go,” Glimmer says. Adora keeps running, while Bow follows, providing cover fire with his arrows. The monster hasn’t chased them; hasn’t followed them. Her friends are still running though, taking her further from her mother’s promise. “I said let me go,” Glimmer insists. Adora only holds her tighter. She’s trying to protect her, but it doesn’t feel like that. To Glimmer it feels like something else. Like all the other times she begged not to be held, and went unheeded. 

The rage fills Glimmer again. Rage mixed with fear. She begins to thrash, and Adora, still running, loses her balance, and falls over. Glimmer rolls across the floor of the tunnel, but the anger remains. She pulls her self up and charges toward her friend. She’s tiny compared to the form of She-Ra, but deluded by anger, she strikes out at her, her weak fists bouncing off She-Ra’s broad chest. 

“Glimmer,” Bow yells, “what are you doing?”

This is enough to bring Glimmer back to her senses, but still she feels the wrath. “You cowards,” she yells, “you’ve always been cowards.”

Concerned, Bow says, “That thing could have killed us.”

“That thing was all that was keeping me from Mom.” That’s not true; her mother herself is the one keeping them apart. “Why do I even have to do this?” Glimmer notices tears. She feels like she’s been crying this whole time. Futilely, she wipes them away. “It’s because you’re afraid of me too, aren’t you? Like you’re afraid of that monster. You’re afraid of what I’d say if you actually tried to talk to me. You’re afraid I’m changed, that I’m not the same friend you remember. Well I’m not, so you’re right to be scared, because you really don’t want to hear what I went though. You couldn’t handle it.”

For a long while the only sound between the crumbled best friend squad is that of Glimmer panting. Bow and Adora look at each other and then down a couple of times, and then, finally, it’s Adora who speaks, “Tell me.”

Bow snaps in an awkward stage whisper, “Adora. We said we weren’t going to ask. We were going to wait until she’s ready.”

Adora glares at him, “She sounds ready to me.” Then, to Glimmer, “Tell me. Tell me everything. If I can’t handle it, then that’s just too bad for me. Because you’re the one who had to live through it.” 

With that, the tension surrounding them evaporated. They all together realize there is no immediate danger. The Chamber Guardian hasn’t pursued, and Adora is not Glimmer’s enemy. She shrinks down to her non She-Ra form, and now they’re just three friends standing together in a hole. No desperation, no pressure; all the time in the world just to talk. 

Glimmer falls to her knees, suddenly feeling so tired. Adora and Bow kneel beside her, and wait for her to speak. In time, she does, “Adora?”

“Yeah?”

“You were raised by Shadow Weaver, right?”

Adora nods.

“Did she ever tell you about a place called the Slave Brothel of the Fright Zone?”

Bow cringes visibly.

“It’s exactly what it sounds like,” explains Glimmer. 

Adora answers, “No. I’ve never heard of such a place.”

“No, I guess you wouldn’t.” Glimmer pauses to breathe, then begins, “She said it was a place she created to give the Horde’s soldiers a place to blow off steam. She filled it with slaves, and the Hordesmen who visited were allowed to rape them and beat them. She sent me there.” Glimmer keeps her eyes down; she can’t bring herself to face her friends. Not until she’s done. “She gave me to a man named Vultak, and he made me one of the slaves.”

“Did they,” Bow speaks, finally. He’s shaking as he does, but he’s brave. He keeps going, “Did they rape you?”

Glimmer tells the truth, “They did and so much more. They were brutal to me. I was whipped, and tortured with electric shocks, and worse. There’s a lot of sick people in the Horde, and there was no one there to stop them from doing whatever they wanted with me. The whole time I was there, it was like a nightmare that I couldn’t wake up from.” Silence, but an understanding one. Glimmer continues to the hardest truth yet. “And I’m still there. In my mind and in my dreams. I know I’m really out here, in Brightmoon, with you all, but it doesn’t feel that way. I’m still a prisoner there. I’m afraid I might always be.”

“Glimmer- I’m- We’re-” Neither Bow nor Glimmer know how to answer, but they want to. “Sorry,” they manage one after the other. And then Bow reaches out. He hesitates, waiting for her permission, and then he lays one hand on her shoulder. Glimmer hesitates too, but then lays her hand on top of his. The gesture is small, and shouldn’t feel like much, but it does. This is what she couldn’t ask for, but what she needed. Bow and Adora, they see her pain now, laid bare and true, and they do not retreat from it; they share it. Ever so slightly they share it, and so Glimmer no longer has to feel so profoundly alone.

“The quest,” Glimmer says.

“Forget the quest,” says Bow.

Adora agrees, “You don’t have to do it. We’re here for you, wings or not.”

The Bow, “And I’m sure your mom will understand; we just need to talk to her.”

Glimmer nods; she agrees. It’s not fair for her mother to put this quest between them. The Queen is just frightened and confused. She came so close to losing her entire family, and in her fear she has fallen back on mysticism and ritual. Things that don’t matter now. Not when there’s so much healing left to do. But-

“I still want to try.”

“Glimmer?”

“That place isn’t the only thing I’ve been dreaming about. I see wings too. I don’t want to be haunted anymore, and I don’t think I can face some of the nightmares but not the others. I want to go back.”

“But that creature could kill you.”

“You’ll keep me safe. I trust you, if you’ll trust me.”

They go.

Beyond the opened gate sits the face of the Chamber Guardian, a huge blue disk of a single eye blocking the path. It sees them, and Glimmer stops, and turns to her friends. She raises one hand, telling them to stay back. Bow draws his weapon, as does Adora, but their feet remain planted in the tunnel, as Glimmer goes on.

From within the folds of the ritual cloak, Glimmer produces the lantern, a glowing orb on a golden ring. The creature stirs, but only slightly as Glimmer declares, “I am Glimmer, heir apparent to the throne of Brightmoon. Even without my wings, I have angel blood in my veins, and by that authority, I demand you let me through into the Chamber of Queens.”

The creature does not move, but Glimmer refuses to be deterred. She comes up so close she can feel the creatures slow breath blow through her cloak. The Guardian opens its mouth showing Glimmer its teeth. Behind her, Bow nocks and arrow, but Glimmer doesn’t flinch. She matches the beasts’s maw with the lantern, and it peers into her deeply. It’s searching for her angelic lineage, for her wings. That is its purpose; to bar mortals from this sacred chamber. It finds no angel blood within the girl holding the lantern. But it does find something else. It senses her courage, and a certainty that she belongs within the Chamber of Queens.

The great pink eel bows its head, and slithers back into the Chamber. It has allowed Glimmer passage, and boldly she goes. The interior of the Chamber of Queens is a strange violet hall of vaulted arches and golden pillars, the walls of which are illuminated with the same pale blue crystals that line the tunnel. The path through the Chamber is clear. One must cross the flower like mosaic at the center and ascend the stairway at the opposite side, and plunge the lantern into the altar. 

Marching slowly and proudly under the gaze of the cycloptic Guardian, Glimmer climbs the steps. She sees no knowledge upon the altar, at least not in the form she expected; there are no books, no tablets, just a pedestal with a dip fit for the lantern. There she finds her answers. She puts down the lantern, and then begins a vision.

The surface of primordial Etheria emerges within Glimmer’s mind. It is a world of bare stone; no oceans or atmosphere, just crystal, rich in untapped magic. In that world of stone, Glimmer witnesses the birth of the angels, from the light of the moons refracted through the crystals of power. It is from this magically refracted light, the angels take form, and create a paradise of beauty that lasts through the eons. Then come the First Ones and their terraforming machines.

It is these beings of flesh who introduce water and air, and who break down the stone surface into soil to sustain their crops. Most angels fade, and do so peacefully, for they understand that is the way of things, for all that is born to eventually die. Others though adapt, taking humanoid shapes, and living among the mortal settlers.

One such evolved angel befriends the First Ones, and is gifted with stewardship over the land that would someday become Brightmoon. It is she who first bore the wings that would come to symbolize the Brightmoon Queens, wings she passes to her half human daughter, who then passes her wings to an even more human daughter, until Angella, and now Glimmer. That is her vision; a ray of light traveling through time, projected first through stone and now through human flesh, an uninterrupted path of glowing destiny. 

But that is just one path taken by that first light refracted over Etheria. Glimmer’s vision, as it reaches her self and her place in spacetime, begins to fray. The orderly path falls to chaos, and more visions inject that orderly cycle of queens with chaotic conflicting sights. Beings of light falling to darkness at the defilement of their planet; the delicate balance of frequencies which construct them, inverted into parasitic void, which feeds on the planet, threatening to devour it. This is the unnatural interruption to the life cycle of the angels. The wings of darkness; the reverse phase of an angel fallen into hatred. 

The vision is a nightmare now. A nightmare of falling through paper thin layers of screaming chaos. The screams are her own, she realizes, as she hears her name, over and over again. Her friends.

“Glimmer!”

“Glimmer!”

Glimmer struggles to see the faces of her friends. She can hear their voices so clearly, but the visions still cloud her, like tar seeping into her eyes. 

“Glimmer, what’s wrong? Why are you screaming?” That’s Bow’s voice. Sweet Bow. Of course he asks why she screams, for what would he know of pain and evil?

The visions of horror abruptly stop, and sight of the Chamber of Queens returns. It’s dark here now. The crystals of light grown into the wall have gone dim, as if afraid. Afraid of what?

Glimmer looks down. Her friends stand beneath her on the pink mosaic at the center of the chamber. Below her? She’s floating; she could never float before. Not like her mother can, on her wings. Wings. Glimmer’s wings must have returned. She looks to her left and right for wings, and finds terror, for it is not wings of light, but wings of seeping void that hold her aloft.

On the floor, her friends have their weapons drawn. Do they see Glimmer as monstrous? Will they strike her down, just because she looks different now? She scowls at them, as Bow lets loose an arrow, but not at her. 

The Chamber Guardian sees her new form and rages. Her friends are trying to protect her, but they cannot. The beast swipes its long tail, throwing Bow and Glimmer into the wall, and then it sets its eye on Glimmer, prepared to destroy the fallen angel.

Glimmer reaches out to it in with a hand shrouded in black mist. The beast lunges, but a rift behind it opens, and so the Guardian is shrunk, sucked away into the dimension of darkness beyond reality. 

Bow and Adora now look on their friend in horror. The wrath, Glimmer thinks, this is it made manifest. A cold whisper in her brain tells her to open another rift; kill her friends like she killed that beast. It would be so easy. Just to scratch the surface of reality and pull them in. 

Glimmer shuts her eyes and teleports away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had so many wonderful comments since I last posted, and now this story is at over one hundred kudos. That feels crazy good. I just have to say how thankful I am to all of you, and now I hope I haven't thrown all that away with the ending of this chapter. Sorry everybody. Love ya'll.


	14. Null Phase

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The flight of a fallen angel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> T/W for discussion of rape and suicide.

Chapter Thirteen - Null Phase

Glimmer’s gift of teleportation is a power she was born with, handed to her from the Moonstone. It is a rare spell in the school of light, which instantaneously converts physical matter into a corresponding matrix of photons able to travel instantaneously and reform. That was how Glimmer’s teleport always worked, in a flash of light, beaming her gently in a series of blinks. This teleport though, channeling the power of darkness, works differently. 

By the power of hungering void, Glimmer collapses space around her, torturing the fabric of reality, and releasing a pulse of entropy out from where she once was. This pulse knocks Bow and Adora to the ground as it blackens the chamber. 

There is a frantic moment in which Adora fears she has been blinded, as the darkness that has fallen over the Chamber of Queens is so profound and absolute. She grips her sacred blade. It hums discordantly; this dark power has upset it, and it struggles to split the shade. When it does, it reveals the cowering shape of Bow, curled up on the ground. Adora speaks his name, “Bow.”

“Adora?” He sounds about to cry. He uncovers his head, and sees it’s her. Shaking, he brings himself to his feet and asks, “What just happened?” Adora cannot begin to answer, even as his voice turns haggard, “What was that? Please?”

Adora plants firm hands on Bow’s shoulders, steadying him. “I don’t know,” she admits slowly.

A series of deep breathes, then, “Where’s Glimmer?”

Adora scans the chamber. It’s dim, but visible now. A thick mist lays over everything, and the azure crystals on the walls have shied away, barely shining at all. It’s empty, more than empty; haunted by the essence of nothingness. “Not here,” whispers Adora.

“Then where’d she go?”

“I don’t know.”

“And what happened to her?”

The most dire question of all, and at it, Adora loses her patience. “Can you stop with all the questions, Bow? How am I supposed to know?”

Simply, “You’re She-Ra.”

It takes this long for Adora to remember that. Bow is beyond shocked, and She-Ra is supposed to be a pillar of certainty and strength, a symbol of Etheria’s eternal tendency towards good. Adora gripes her blade, and says to Bow, “We need to go. This place is cursed. It might not be safe here.”

Bow nods, but hesitates, “Where are we going?”

“To the Queen. If anyone knows what happened to Glimmer, it’ll be her.”

They agree and head into the tunnel, up and out of the defiled Chamber. When they reach the surface, Adora and Bow witness a sky marred by apocalypse, for the bright moon of Etheria for which the Kingdom is named has been blotted out by a sudden unexplainable eclipse, and what should be a clear serene day appears as an unnatural starless night. 

A storm brews. Black clouds stretch across the sky, forming a distinct symmetrical shape. Wings. Wings of consuming black mist, swirling violently, howling with thunder. The wind picks up, almost knocking Bow off his still unsteady feet. He pushes on and asks the wailing sky, “Is that her?”

Adora answers, “I don’t know,” but it sounds like a yes. “Let’s find Angella.”

Under the troubled sky, The Queen of Brightmoon sits numb upon her throne. She has seen what rises beyond the high windows behind her. She has seen the wings of darkness swallow the daytime moon, and fears the very worst. 

The wide doors to her royal court fly open. It’s Adora and Bow. There is no else with them.

Before Adora can speak, the Queen does, “I thought- I hoped for a moment that Glimmer would be with you.”

Adora hangs her head, “I’m sorry.”

Queen Angella forces herself painfully from her throne and turns to the outside, to the storm consuming the sky over her Kingdom. “What happened,” she asks carefully, “tell me everything.”

Adora shakes her head, “I really don’t know what there is to tell. She put the lantern down into the altar, just like she was supposed to and then-” She can’t describe it.

Bow tries, “She changed. Her wings grew back, but they grew back wrong. And she was screaming like she was in pain. We tried to go to her, but the way she looked at us. It was like she hated us.”

“And where is she now?”

Adora answers, “She teleported. We don’t know where she went.”

The Queen quivers, “And is that all?”

Adora almost says yes, but the rage swirling in the storm outside compels her to the truth, “There’s something else. Inside the Chamber, there was this monster guarding it. It attacked her, after her change. And she just-” Words fail again.

“Did she defeat the Guardian?”

“No. Yes. It was like she willed it out of existence. It was just gone, and all she did was look at it.”

The face of Queen Angella falls, and she she does too. On her knees, she braces herself against the floor. Bow and Adora rush to her side and hold her. The look on her face; the despair. 

Adora, “You you know what any of this means?”

The Queen, “I think it means, all is lost.” 

The storm outside opens and a rain begins. It is a rain dark as ink, weeping from the sky, painting everything black. The raging wind whips up this cursed rain, splattering it against the windows of Brightmoon Castle. The throne room turns very dark. 

“Null Phase,” the Queen says, “Glimmer has entered Null Phase.”

Adora and Bow wait in dread for the Queen Angella to explain.

“I didn’t think such a thing could happen to my Glimmer. Not her, and not in this era.” Angella raises her head and sees her daughter’s friends bereaved, but confused. It is better to let them know, “Light is the essence of an angel; it is the through line which balances our magic, and keeps our forms in harmony with material reality. But through pain, that light can be extinguished; if despair turns to rage, the light inside cannot abide. The angel then will transform into something else; into a creature of havoc and darkness. That is Null Phase. Such a thing hasn’t happened in well over two thousand years, in a time before my people were so mixed with humans; a time when we were more volatile.”

“What happened to them,” Adora asks, “what’s going to happen to Glimmer?”

The Queen looks over her shoulder, to the stained windows. “Most,” she answers, “burnt out in the burst of power that comes from the fall. But those who survived were forever changed into beings of malevolence. Beings who were eventually defeated by the mages among the First Ones. Banished to the void between dimensions where they couldn’t hurt anyone anymore.”

Bow pleads, “But Glimmer?”

“Glimmer is lost. The only hope is for her to die soon, and for Brightmoon to weather the storm of her fall.” The Queen’s voice is hollow; she cannot believe what she says.

“What?” Bow snaps out of his shock; her’s suddenly very present, and furious. “How can you say that? Glimmer’s our friend; she’s your daughter. There has to be something we can do. You said some fallen angels survive; how?”

“Even if we could do something to help Glimmer survive this storm, it wouldn’t do any good. The Glimmer we knew is gone. Only evil remains.”

“Evil is a choice. You can’t just turn evil because your light goes into the wrong phase. She’s still Glimmer.”

Angella looks down at him with pitying eyes. Sweet, foolish Bow. She puts out her arms to embrace him. He accepts her touch. “Adora,” the Queen says tearfully, “join us.”

She doesn’t. There’s something else weighing on her mind. “The magic Glimmer used in the Chamber. The magic that covered her. I feel like I’ve seen it before. When I was a kid, in the Horde. It looks like the magic Shadow Weaver uses. I can’t help but think-”

“The spell of obtainment,” answers Queen Angella, as she loosens her grip on Bow, “the spell that turned Shadow Weaver into what she is, was created to replicate the power of fallen angels. The magic is related; both in the school of shadow.”

“So Shadow Weaver probably know about the ancient angels. That makes me wonder if this was her plan all along.”

The Queen considers this, and says, “It was so strange. Glimmer was gone so completely, and for so long, and then that magicat brought her through the Whispering Woods on the very day the guard was warned Horde would be there. I knew that was suspicious at the time, but I was so overjoyed to have my Glimmer back.”

Bow looks to Adora, and then to Queen Angella, “What are you saying?”

Adora steels herself; she doesn’t want to say it, but she can’t help but think it. “Rage, not just pain and sadness. Rage is what makes an angel fall, right? She seemed angry at us. What if Shadow Weaver did something to her mind, and turned her against us?”

“Wait,” Bow won’t believe that, “are you saying Shadow Weaver actually sent Glimmer back to destroy us?”

Angella admits, “She has seemed so strange since she returned.”

Bow scowls, “She wouldn’t do that to us. No matter what Shadow Weaver or the Horde did to her. She wouldn’t betray us.”

“After what she said they did to her, are you sure?”

“What did they do,” the Queen begins to ask, but a force from the outside shatters the windows, throwing the Queen and her daughter’s friends to the floor in a rain of broken glass. The wind carries in spatters of the dark inky rain, and the mist. Dark shifting tendrils which cling to the walls, swallowing light and obscuring shape. 

Adora turns first to the Queen, sheltering herself from the flying debris with her wings, and then to Bow. A shard of glass has cut him across the cheek. He’s bleeding but his life isn’t in danger. 

Suddenly, the rain stops. The wind ceases to howl, and yet the darkness remains. Framed by the shattered windows, there is Glimmer. From the black clouds she has floated into the castle to rise above her mother’s throne. Wings of darkness hold her in the air; huge, even larger than her mother’s wings of light, and not feathery like the Queen’s, but of shadowy membrane and spindly fingers. 

Glimmer’s new wings hold her still, as the tainted mist flows out from her, onto the floor of the throne room. This mist obscures the Princess, but Adora strives to look through it, and finds beyond the shade, it’s still Glimmer. With the same choppy bob, and soft plump belly. Her friend who first showed her the light of justice beyond the Horde’s indoctrinated evil. “Glimmer,” speaks Adora, coming to her feet.

Behind the flowing malevolence, Glimmer’s head turns, and her eyes, shining a ruddy, lurid shade of purple, lock on Adora. Her sight holds her still with terror and awe, and for a moment, Adora fears her friend will open another rift and destroy her as she did the Guardian. Glimmer doesn’t; she sinks to the floor, but as her feet touch the ground, her wings suddenly feel too heavy. She collapses. Adora rushes to her side, but doesn’t touch, for mortal fear of the dark aura she emits. 

“Adora,” Glimmer’s voice comes out distorted and hollow, “what’s happening to me?”

Adora kneels, and whispers, “It’s okay, Glimmer. You’re going to be fine.” It hurts to lie so utterly. 

Glimmer sobs, and the shade around her parts enough for Adora to see her face, to see that she weeps the same dark liquid which rained from the sky. It streaks down her cheeks, down her neck, staining her white ceremonial cloak, now in tatters. “Help me,” she begs.

How, is all Adora can think. With her sword? It is with her as always. With it, she has mended what is broken before. The Seagate of Salineas. But Glimmer’s a person; that’s different. She has to try. Adora draws her sacred sword, and holds it up above the fallen Princess. She begins to speak the sacred battlecry, “For the honor of-”

“No Adora,” a sudden shout from the Queen, ear shatteringly loud, and desperate with fear, “She can’t be healed now. Attempting to do so could corrupt the sword. You could lose it forever. You could lose yourself forever.”

“Mom,” comes Glimmer’s warped and harrowed voice. She can barely see her mother through the darkness that envelops her, but she can hear her voice. She tries to follow it, but her wings are too heavy; she has to move them. Barely can Glimmer feel her new grotesque extremities, and as she flexes them. Stiff, but strong. Glimmer plants the points of her bat-like wings into the floor, and drags herself along. It’s a nightmarish sight; this creature of writhing darkness, struggling forward on demonic growths. 

Glimmer sobs, “Mom,” low and drawn out, and still shaking with distortion, “help me.”

Queen Angella recoils. “Stay back,” she can barely say. 

“What’s happening to me, Mom,” Glimmer screeches, “it hurts so much.”

The Queen pleads, “You can’t come any closer. It’s too dangerous for us to touch.”

“Mom I’m scared. You have to help me.”

“We have to do something,” Bow stands, covering the bloodied half of his face. “Glimmer,” he calls, “Glimmer can you hear me?”

“Bow,” she sounds almost relieved through her pain, “you’re here too. You’re all here. Good. Hold me, someone please.”

Only Bow is brave enough to step forward. He kneels before Glimmer, still struggling against the weight of her evil wings. He runs a hand through her hair, even as the miasma surrounding the Princess pinches at every nerve in his arm. “Oh Bow,” she says, “my first friend, my best friend.” She raises her head, and sees that he bleeds from his cheek. “I hurt you,” remorse fills her distorted voice. 

“I’ll be all right.” He can’t feel the pain; not now as he looks upon Glimmer’s torment and corruption. 

“I’m sorry,” Glimmer says, reaching her tainted fingers out to the wounds. She touches it, and in an instant, the clean slice across Bow’s cheek festers and rots. A full course of disease runs through the cut, and it swells and oozes until what is left is a deep scar to leave Bow disfigured for a lifetime. Bow feels that. He collapses in pain, screeching, as sickly purple pus pools around his head.

Glimmer looks upon her own hands with horror. Can this truly be what she has become? Toxicity incarnate. “I’m sorry,” Glimmer says, but how can she mean it? She’d never hurt Bow, not on purpose. All her life she has believed in the values of Brightmoon; justice, love, peace. She is not a monster. 

Light streaks through Glimmer, assaulting her retinas and lacerating her mind. The light burns her to the core of her spirit, and she shrinks away, as another wave comes. It is her mother’s photokinesis, buffeted out in a wave by her angelic wings. “You must leave, Glimmer,” proclaims the Queen, her whole body alight in the dark, “you are a danger to the Kingdom so long as you remain here.” 

“But Mom.”

“I am sorry, Glimmer. It pains me more than you can know to say this, but you must be destroyed. For Brightmoon, and for your own sake.”

Relief. That is what Glimmer first feels, as she falls to her knees and hangs her head. So, she is going to die. She has been ready to die for so long already. This is the only way for her torment to end. She feels like she known it to be so, ever since Shadow Weaver threw her to the pit of the Slave Brothel of the Fright Zone. 

Queen Angella orders, “Adora, you must do it. I can hold her back, but only you are powerful enough to slay her.” 

Adora turns her face from Bow, still racked with pain, floating just above unconsciousness. “You can’t mean,” she stutters.

“With your sword. It is your purpose as She-Ra to smite that which threatens Etheria’s balance.”

Adora looks to the blade, reflecting her own weeping face. “I can’t.”

“You must. End her suffering.”

The saddest battlecry, “For the honor of Greyskull,” and Glimmer can sense the might of She-Ra above her, her blade poised, but her hands shaking.

“Please,” Glimmer speaks, horrified by the distortion of her own voice, “save me.”

The Sword of Protection aims at Glimmer as the Queen offers these final words, “I should have known it would come to this, poor child. From the beginning I knew what those scars on your wrists meant. It was your sin against the Universe’s gift of life, which put you on this path. Take comfort that you are about to receive what you desired. Take comfort too in the fact that I will always love you. Farewell, Glimmer.” Her mother mourns, and She-Ra’s grip on the sword fixes, yet Glimmer cannot accept her fate.

Sin? The word echoes in the darkness that has swallowed her mind. A razor blade across the veins; a brief desperate act to escape a lifetime of degradation and torture. How can she call that a sin? What even would she know of sin? Queen of Brightmoon, first bastion of the Runestone Kingdoms. Like Glimmer herself, fed righteousness from birth until it flows with her blood. How dare she condemn that which she could never understand? Her light blinds her; it always blinds the virtuous to all that is not just and right and fair. Leaves them in a world of comforting lies, while the rest of us suffer and cry. If only she could be made to face the truth.

That last thought; it can’t have been Glimmer’s. Could it? It’s the wrath; it remains, even after hope and love both fail. Answer it? Or let the Sword of Protection vanquish her, like yet another monster? 

Answer it how? An image; the Moonstone. Her Kingdom’s Runestone; a primal crystal of untouched light.

She-Ra lets her sword fall, and with a flash, it collides with a wave of screaming shadows. Adora is thrown to the ground, as the inky rain begins to fall again in an angry hungry torrent. Thunder crashes, and refuses to cease, and there is Glimmer; her wings no longer heavy. They hold her up, proud and terrible.

Instinct sends She-Ra fumbling to pick up her sword. She holds it aloft defensively, afraid for her life. Afraid of Glimmer. Her friend.

The Brightmoon Princess offers Adora a long blank look, before she flaps her wings, and is swallowed up by shadow. This is the dark teleport, and like before, there is a rush of suction inward towards the rift, through which Glimmer has disappeared, followed by a shattering burst outward. 

Adora expects it, and transforms the Sword of Protection into a broad golden tower shield. Most of the blast breaks upon the shield, protecting wounded Bow and the grieving Queen behind her, but the damage to the castle is terrible. Corruption has seeped into the white stone of the throne room, which persists like a negative fire which consumes light as it burns. 

“She’s gone,” Adora says, lowering her sword, “is it over?”

A feeling grabs hold of Queen Angella, and her heart sinks with dread. “She wouldn’t,” the Queen says aloud, “even now, taken by madness, she can’t.”

“She can’t what?”

“The Moonstone,” the Queen’s eyes are wide. “If she were to touch it now, then- I don’t know.” 

On the floor, head resting in Angella’s lap, Bow stirs. Pained, he speaks, “My parents keep a shard of a broken Runestone in their library. They say, when it was shattered Etheria’s climate collapsed, and the whole world had to rebuild.”

Adora looks to her sword, mournfully, “No matter what, we can’t let that happen.”

The bright wings of Queen Angella flex, “Then we must go.” Bow bursts into a fit of coughing.

“No. I have to go alone.”

“But it’s my Runestone. My Kingdom. My daughter.”

“You said it yourself; you can only hold her back. I’ll protect the Runestone. Please, get Bow to safety. This room is poison, and he’s already wounded. Don’t let him die, please.”

With that, Adora, still in the mighty form of She-Ra, is off through the gilded hallways of Brightmoon Castle. She escapes through the bridge connecting the capitol to the sacred stone upon its own pillar, where she is hit with a downpour of cursed rain, soaking her white vestments and golden armor. Above, the crying storm has formed an eye; a nexus hovering eagerly above the pale untainted Runestone. Adora runs.

The eye of the unholy storm opens, and from it flies Glimmer on her new wings. They lower her to the Moonstone. Brightmoon’s Runestone still shimmers even under these cursed clouds. It glows timidly, Glimmer feels; it is afraid. Her thoughts run with malice. Touch it; let me claim what fate has denied me.

Glimmer’s feet touch down on the pedestal of the Moonstone, and Adora shouts, “Glimmer!”

Glimmer takes notice of her, soaked in inky rain; her sword ready, her eyes red from weeping. Glimmer looks back onto the Moonstone. So clean, so light, so empty, and so in need of the weight of darkness. 

“Glimmer, I know you’re still in there. Listen to me, I’m your friend. You can’t do this.”

“My friend,” she speaks, her voice echoing through the clouds, “how can you say that, when you’ve come here to kill me?” 

“I don’t want to kill you, but even if I can’t save you, I will save everything you love. This Kingdom. Bow. Your mom. Me? You still love us, don’t you?”

“I do,” Glimmer admits, “but love isn’t always enough.” She raises a hand and very nearly caresses the Moonstone, savoring its last moments untainted.

Adora marches forth, her sword drawn high and ready. Glimmer lets her come within striking distance, before finally turning to She-Ra, while still holding a mist shrouded hand over the Runestone. She-Ra stays her blade, and speaks, “Glimmer, I can’t even begin to say how sorry I am for what you’ve been through.”

Plainly, even as the Sword of Protection hangs above her, “What have I been through?”

“What? What do you mean?”

“I want to hear you say it in your own words.”

Adora winces, “I’m so sorry that, when the Horde had you, you were raped.”

“Still squeamish. I disgust you now; you see me as dirty, as changed. This whole time, you’ve acted like you don’t know me anymore, like you can’t trust that I’m still me.” Glimmer turns away, to her own blotted reflection in the Moonstone, “I’m sorry too, Adora. But I have to do this. The shadows tell me it’s the only way to make everyone understand.”

The tips of Glimmer’s fingers brush the surface of the Moonstone, and the Sword of Protection falls. Adora feels the sharp pull of the dark teleport’s first phase, and then the explosion. She is thrown off her feet, as her sacred sword transforms again into a shield to cover her. There is a scream, and then silence, complete even tranquil.

The rain has stopped; Adora sees this as she shifts her shield back to a sword, and looks upon the sky. The storm is not gone, but it is like the eye which held it together has let go. The black clouds have lost their purpose, and soften into the quiet sky. 

The Moonstone. Adora jumps to her feet and inspects the Runestone which she has sworn to protect. Terror; four dark fingerprints smear across its face. They sink into the surface of the stone, and Adora watches as they swirl and pool within it, and then fall to the bottom. Glimmer’s touch was not nearly enough to corrupt the Moonstone, but her mark remains as a sliver along the bottom edge of the Runestone. Proof of a shift, ever so slight, in its phase.

Victory, Adora realizes, and then her fear of failure, of allowing Brightmoon to fall, abates. Then it is replaced with sadness. The Glimmer she knew is gone, replaced with a monster loose upon the world. A kinder fate would have been for her to die. An easier grief on Adora’s heart, as well.

In the Fright Zone,

A falling star appears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think that's enough deep lore™ for a while.   
> Next Chapter: Catra and Glimmer are reunited.


	15. Fallen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A disaster strikes the Fright Zone and Force Captain Catra is sent to investigate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No specific trigger warnings for this chapter, but the rating and warnings for the over all fic as always stand.

Chapter Fourteen - Fallen

Catra awoke this morning to the sound of the raid siren, which rang especially loud over the Force Captains’ Barracks, near the capitol of the Fright Zone. It meant there is an emergency in the Fright Zone, possibly an invasion from the Princess Alliance, though Catra doubted that. The Fright Zone is a chaotic, dangerous place. It’s much more common for the raid siren to sound for an internal catastrophe. The heavy industry and eccentric scientists employed by the Horde lack oversight, and are thus accident prone. 

Still, Catra prepared for anything. There was only a moment for Catra to dress and wash her face before her communicator rang. It was Shadow Weaver, telling her that as the newest Force Captain she was to be tasked with the menial job of investigating the disturbance. She and Force Captain Scorpia. 

There was a time when Catra would have rolled her eyes at yet another job paired with Scorpia, but since her trial, a new understanding has arisen between them. Scorpia’s schoolgirl-like pursuit of her has cooled now that she’s seen Catra’s heart ache, and her guts spill for another. Beyond that now, Catra has come to appreciate Force Captain Scorpia for her loyalty, and more than that; her honor, something Catra still isn’t sure she believes in.

Catra yawns as she exits her dormitory room, and finds Scorpia standing outside her door, tall as a battlement. “Hi Catra,” she waves her massive red claw. Still friendly though.

“You know where we’re going,” asks Catra, as she checks the stun baton strapped to her belt. 

“Nope.”

“Ready to go?’

“Always.”

Outside of the complex which contains the Force Captains’ Barracks, the raid siren is unbearable loud. Nothing else can be heard. Catra and Scorpia rush to their military transport, an open backed truck full of faceless troopers. They speed down the twisted highways of the Fright Zone, down a familiar path.

As the raid siren fades into the background, the current bluff of the Fright Zone’s ragged terrain begins to drop off, while beyond a pillar of smoke rises into the dull yellow sky. As the transport continues down, Scorpia notices yellow trucks rolling along beside them. They belong to the Fright Zone’s experienced and often overworked fire brigade. “Just another fire,” she wonders aloud.

Catra looks around, “Maybe, but the smoke’s coming from the under city. There’s no factories or labs down there.”

“Do you think it’s at, you know, that place?”

Catra pauses. Her heart tells her it is, but she says, “Wouldn’t surprise me.”

The transport screeches to a halt behind a barricade of parked yellow trucks. Their hazard lights flash out of synch with each other, while mounted hoses spray the Horde’s mucky water into the cloud of smoke. 

Catra exits, as the other troopers fan out, pushing back civilian onlookers, creating a perimeter. A fire brigadier, wearing a yellow rubber suit of armor and holding an axe runs up to Catra and salutes her, and then Scorpia, who joins her. “Madame Force Captains,” he says, “you might want to wear these.” He hands out filtered masks like the one he wears. Scorpia fumbles to put it around her mouth with her large claws, while Catra just holds it.

“We’re a little far from the smoke for these, don’t you think?”

The yellow suited brigadier shakes his head, “I suggest you put it on, ma’am. There’s something weird in the smoke.”

“Poison?”

“We think so. Not deadly. Hypnotic, maybe? Just put on the mask on if you don’t want to start seeing things.”

Catra puts it on, and marches out into the smoke cloud. There she is is soaked in mist from the fire brigade’s water cannons. Her skin prickles; she doesn’t like having wet fur.

It’s hard to see this close to the fire. Through the mist and smoke the lanterns of the fire brigade flail as the rescue squad sorts through obscured wreckage with their axes. It’s a building that is at the source of the fire. Through the flow of the smoke, its damage reveals itself. There is a crack through the front facade, which has turned the building lopsided, like a skull cleaved with an axe. And at the very bottom of the crack, the doorway has collapsed in on itself, shattering the lanterns which once hung at each side. Red glass cascades across the concrete, crushed under the boots of the fire brigade.

Scorpia waves the smoke out of her face with a pincer and says through her mask, “This is it; the Slave Brothel.”

Catra nods, and then approaches the fire brigade, at work on the imploded entrance. A man swinging a pickaxe has a crest on his hardhat. He must be in charge. Catra calls him from his efforts, “What’s the situation?” 

He turns round and she holds up her Force Captain’s badge, so he knows he has to answer. “R&R joint got hit last night.”

“Hit? By what? How?”

“Don’t know,” the fire brigadier says, throwing his pickaxe over his shoulder, “But there’s still folks trapped inside. Grab an axe if you wanna help.”

Catra crosses her arms and looks to Scorpia, who’s already taken up a sledge hammer. True to her feline nature, Catra doesn’t like to put in unneeded effort, especially in a groups, but she’s on the spot. She borrows a crowbar and gets to work. 

Force Captain Scorpia is all the fire brigade really need to breach the crumbled Slave Brothel. She shatters the concrete facade with ease, while the rest (including Catra) drag rubble out of the way, then prop up what’s left of the front wall, creating an entrance. 

The breach releases a new wave of mist, dark and purple, which clings to the ground, low like a shadow. Then nothing. The fire brigade had been ready for an outflow of trapped civilians, but none came. Inside it is uncannily still.

The rescue teams are afraid to go in, but that’s why they sent Force Captains, to push the servants of the Horde past even their most rational fears. Catra makes the first step inside, followed by Scorpia. She knows she has entered the dreaded Floor of the Slave Brothel, but she sees nothing. “I’m gonna need lights,” she orders of the still timid brigade behind her, “and fans. Something to blow away all this mist.”

With the help of Force Captain Scorpia, more of the Slave Brothel’s front wall is demolished, making room for the fire brigade’s engineers to set up flood lights and call in for industrial fans. Swift air parts the inky mist inside, but only barely. With all the electric light the Fright Zone can spare, the darkness still hungers. When it is deemed possible to navigate inside, Catra enters again to where it is dark and haunted. The Floor is littered with bodies, slaves in exotic outfits, splayed out. 

Scorpia covers her mouth with a claw, shocked, “Are they dead?”

Catra shakes her head, “Remember what the fire chief said; it’s hypnotic not deadly.”

“They still look dead.”

“Then we have to check.” Catra starts. She leans down to a slave she recognizes. Buff, blonde, spoke to her the night she found Glimmer in this same place. Catra puts two fingers to her jugular. It thumps. “This one’s alive,” she declares. She pulls the slave up into her lap and peels back her eyelid. Her pupil contracts to the floodlights beyond. “Just sleeping. She’ll be fine.” 

Scorpia and the rest of the fire brigade get to work doing the same across the floor, and deeper into the Slave Brothel. They find the slaves alive, and some, in the arms of their rescuers, wake, describing strange dreams. Some, the same dream. Wings of darkness, and a mother made of light, passing a final judgement. 

In one of the halls behind the Floor, Catra searches for outliers. The mist is thicker here, darker. She waves a flashlight down the corridor, and sees a shape of a man. A man with ragged feathery wings. She knows who it is, but just like all the others, she kneels before him, and shines her light in his eye. He squawks; she’s woken him, and she is ready to leave him behind like all the others, but he begins to speak, “Catra? Is that you, little kitty? It’s me, old Vultak. It’s been so long, and my, you’re all grown up. And on Shadow Weaver’s good side now, I hope. Or maybe not. You are back here. With me.”

With one hand, Catra squeezes shut his nostrils, while the other clamps over his lips. He struggles, but he is still languid from the mist. He cannot fight back, and in minutes, he is dead. Suffocated.

Footsteps echo up the hall, and Catra releases him. It’s one of the fire brigadiers, clad in yellow armor, face covered. “Madame Force Captain,” she says, “your friend found something.”

Cooly, Catra answers, “What’d she find?”

“It’s hard to explain. You best come see.”

Catra salutes, and goes to follow the brigadier, but she pauses, looking down to the winged man on the floor. “I found a casualty,” Catra reports, “he must have smothered himself trying to avoid the mist.”

The brigadier shakes her head, “Poor bastard.” 

She then turns and Catra follows. “Yes,” she whispers, “bastard.”

The lady firefighter in the yellow suit leads Catra to a collapsed wall into which a tunnel has been cut. The brigadier gestures for Catra to go through it, and she does. The tunnel is longer than she expected, and completely dark. She crawls on, with only faith that it ends. 

The tunnel leads to an unknown room deep in the Slave Brothel’s twisting passageways. A room cramped, narrow, and dominated by a strange dark structure. In pieces, a stand and an electrical light have been funneled in and assembled. Its glow illuminates the dense mist inside, painting the chamber an eerie hue of violet. Scorpia stands inside, her mask firmly on. Catra pulls herself from the tunnel, then to her feet. “Scorpia,” she says, “you wanted to see me.” Her voice trails off, because she sees it.

Catra wouldn’t know how to explain it either. Some properties are obvious. It’s height; just about as tall as the room, and shape; round, and wider at the bottom than the top. It’s color though, and texture, unknowable as the mist clings to it, flows from it. 

Scorpia tilts the light up to the ceiling, most of which is now a gaping hole, the rubble from which litters the floor. It appears endless, even with the light shining on it, as the mist from the strange monolith billows upward. Scorpia explains, “It looks like this is what struck the building. It came in though the roof, and just shattered the foundation.” Together, Catra and Scorpia stare for a moment. Such an uncanny thing; it may well be capable of such destruction. It may be capable of anything. Scorpia goes on, “I talked to one of the slaves who was outside when it hit. A forest elf. She called it a falling star.”

“What’s a star?”

Scorpia shakes her head, “I don’t know, and neither did she.”

Another long while, just staring at it. Then Catra, knowing not what else to do, raises a hand and goes to touch its surface. “Don’t,” Scorpia warns her, but she lays her hand upon anyway. 

She says, “It feels hollow. Maybe there’s something inside?” Gently, Catra raps on it. “And brittle. Scorpia, try breaking it open.”

“Brittle,” with her claw, Scorpia points to the shattered ceiling, “but it did that?”

“Just try it.”

Skeptically, Scorpia takes the sharp tip of her pincer, and strikes the weird dark shape. It shatters but it does not break. It’s more like it dissolves into more mist, which washes over the Force Captains, blotting out the light from the lantern, but just for a moment. Soon, sight returns, and where the falling star was, there is now a girl. Glimmer.

“That’s not possible,” Catra looks to Scorpia, “you see that too, right? There’s no leak in my mask?”

Scorpia only barely recognizes her, “The Brightmoon Princess? Yeah, I see her too.” She bows to touch her, to truly feel that she is there and of flesh. She looks so strange, placid and soft, and beautiful. Scorpia hadn’t noticed before, how beautiful the Brightmoon Princess is.

Catra slaps away her claw. “Don’t touch her,” she hisses. She throws herself to the dark and dusty floor, and runs a hand down Glimmer’s cheek. She’s real, and she is there. She’s alive, Catra realizes as well; her skin is warm, so preciously warm. She whispers, stuttering, “Can you hear me? Glimmer?” No response, but the Brightmoon Princess does not look unwell. Rather, like she is sleeping. She looks peaceful. But she won’t wake up.

“Medic! We need a medic in here,” yells Catra. No answer. Of course not; this room is just a tiny bubble in a mountain of wreckage. 

The tunnel, Catra thinks, it has to be wider. One of the fire brigade’s engineers left behind a hatchet on the floor. Catra takes it, and frantically, bashes into the wall. The weakened plaster crumbles. Only a start. “What are you doing,” hisses Catra to Scorpia, “help me.”

Everything that happens next, happens fast. Catra’s screaming alerts the lady firefighter on the other side of the tunnel. With her help, and that of Scorpia, the tunnel is rapidly widened, and as Catra scrambles around the floor, clearing a path to the sleeping Princess, she calls again for a medic, for anyone to see to Glimmer, but the fire brigadier who showed her to Scorpia and the tunnel informs her frantically, “But there aren’t any. All the medics are busy with the others. We can’t spare anyone.”

Catra growls, “Then I’ll take her. I just need a stretcher or something.” She leaves Scorpia to guard comatose Glimmer, and runs off. She returns with a gurney she all but stole from the rescue team. She’s frantic now, with a twitch the the yellow of her mismatched eyes. Scorpia doesn’t wait to help her pull Glimmer up out of tunnel, and onto a stretcher. She’s heavier than she looks, Scorpia finds, though she cannot tell why. Even plucked from her shattered egg, darkness clings the fallen Princess.

They carry her down the hallway, towards the entrance. Something of a medical camp has been set up in the former Floor. There, slaves huddle in blankets as every spare rescue worker in the Fright Zone hands out food and water. Among them, Scorpia thinks she sees a fellow Scorpioni, perhaps the one in the cage from her previous vision.

Ahead, Catra rushes towards the exit. Scorpia dutifully follows. 

Catra stops, as they approach the rescue teams interacting with the huddled survivors. “We have to cover her.” They do with a fallen piece of tarp, and haul her outside, to the barricade of yellow trucks, lights flashing. 

The supervising fire chief comes forward to meet them. “What ya got there,” he asks, “another survivor?”

Catra silences Scorpia with a look, and answers, “Classified.”

The chief cocks a skeptical eyebrow behind his goggles, “On whose authority?”

“Mine. Now, we’re done investigating the cause of all this. That’s also classified, by the way.” 

“Then what am I supposed to do?”

“Quarantine this place until further notice. Food and medicine can get in, but nothing else.”

“The troops aren’t gonna like that.”

“Then they’ll suffer.” They push past him, through the rows of yellow trucks, toward the street.

Catra taps on her Force Captain’s badge, which also functions as a communicator. “I’m calling for a ride.” 

Scorpia asks, “Where are we going? The hospital?”

Catra thinks about it. The Fright Zone’s health center is an expansive citadel of butchery and cybernetic mending, where Modulok holds the position of head (so to speak) surgeon. “Not there,” Catra says. What could they do for her anyway? Glimmer’s not in pieces; just unconscious, as far as Catra can tell. “We take her home.”

“Home? Like, to the Force Captains’ Barracks?”

“Can you think of a better place?”

A discreet car arrives. Scorpia still hasn’t said anything.

Catra distracts the driver, a low level worker employed by the Horde’s military, keeping his eyes forward, as Scorpia slides Glimmer, still veiled, into the back. They rush back to the main army compound at Catra’s insistence. 

It’s a nerve racking task, sneaking a sleeping girl into the Force Captain’s dormitories, but they manage. With Scorpia’s size and some creative use of the tarp, they pass Glimmer off as some kind of parcel. A parcel leaking a mysterious black mist.

Inside Catra’s room, Scorpia drops Glimmer down on her bed, and pulls back the tarp. The darkness that enshrouded her, which filled up the shattered Slave Brothel, has dwindled to just stray fingers of evaporating fog, revealing Glimmer fully. Entirely naked, and changed. Her skin, once a tawny yellow is now tinted a garish tyrian purple; a corruption of her mother’s rosy hue. And the sparkle in her hair, for which she received her name, is gone, swallowed by a writhing, elusive shade. And the wings. The ultimate source of the corrupting fog, now revealed. No longer huge as they were when they held the Princess inside the storm over Brightmoon, but still grotesque in shape and absolute in darkness. They look not quite solid, like shadows bound to Glimmer’s skin. Curious, Catra reaches out to test if these wings would feel solid in her grasp, or if she would touch only abyss.

Glimmer’s eyes shoot open, revealing black scleras and wrath. An invisible hand takes hold of Catra’s throat. She cannot breathe; blood rushes to her head, and she feels gravity let go, as her feet rise from the floor. 

Scorpia calls out, “Catra,” but a glance from Glimmer throws her against the wall.

Lights flicker. Catra chokes, and in her fading vision, she sees shadowy tendrils phase in and out of sight. And Glimmer; her teeth bared, and her wings outstretched. Horrifying, and at the same time, beautiful. 

“It’s me,” Catra manages to cough, “Glimmer please.”

Glimmer’s darkened eyes focus, and Catra drops to the ground, finally able to breathe. A shriek echoes through the Fright Zone, as Glimmer rises on her new wings, betrayed, and confused. All Catra can do is look on in awe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who left a comment on the last chapter. They were a delight to read.  
> Next Chapter: Glimmer must come to terms with her new form.


	16. The Final Threshold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cuddle times.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> T/W for discussion of rape, including child sexual abuse, and mention of mutilation.

Chapter Fifteen - The Final Threshold

“Quiet,” Catra hisses. Glimmer’s shriek rivals the Fright Zone’s raid siren, and Catra knows what will happen if anyone discovers the Brightmoon Princess alive. 

Glimmer doesn’t heed, but all the same, her scream runs out, as does the surge of power she woke with. Her wings go limp and drop her to the floor. She asks, “Where am I?” She clasps her throat, horrified by the distorted sound of her own voice. Another permanent change from her fall.

The answer comes, “The Fright Zone.” Catra.

Glimmer looks up, and whispers, “You? You’re alive.”

Catra squints, unsure, and then she cracks a dark, knowing smile, “You thought I was dead? Is that what those Brightmoon goodie-goodies told you?”

“Brightmoon.” The mention of her Kingdoms brings forth a rush of memories. The storm. Her anger. And her mother. Her own mother. Glimmer’s wings flare out, and the shadows on the walls of Catra’s room quiver under her pull. 

Genuine fear replaces Catra’s smug smirk. “Whoa, Princess.” Glimmer’s eyes snap to her own. “You gotta calm down. No more of that weird shadow stuff, okay.”

“I’m,” Glimmer breathes out at the shadows return to the corners of Catra’s dormitory, “not a Princess anymore.”

“Fine,” Catra keeps her voice down, calm, “just Glimmer then.”A beat passes, and the tense energy between the Force Captain and the fallen Princess dissipates, and in the quiet, they discover each other staring. They’re together again at last. Catra who sacrificed so much to set Glimmer free, and Glimmer who came back. A great deal goes unsaid in this this moment.

Scorpia stirs on the floor nearby. The shove from Glimmer’s shadowy touch knocked her head against the wall, but she has a thick skull. She’s fine, just dazed. She groans and rubs at her temples with her pincers, “Hey, it’s me, Scorpia. Still here by the way.” The intense pressure between Catra and Glimmer lets go, and Scorpia stands. She sees Glimmer on the floor, naked, and weighed down by horrible mutated wings. She starts, and the Princess looks at her with her blacked out eyes, which look so empty. “What happened to you?” That feels like a foolish question. Scorpia knows where’s she been; the hell she’s lived though since her own attack on the Princess Prom. It doesn’t matter what she looks like; she’s a trauma victim. She needs help.

Scorpia grasps Glimmer under her arms, careful not to pinch her tender skin with her chitinous claws, and places her down on Catra’s bed. Glimmer recognizes the touch of a scorpioni’s pincer, believing for a confused moment that she is back in the Slave Brothel, in the care of a tender lost soul. Her clouded vision clears, and she discovers the giant Scorpioni woman to have cropped white hair, not long and black. Glimmer remembers her now. From the Princess Prom; the brute in the black dress.

It dawns on Scorpia, under Catra’s glare, that she may have interrupted something, and she backs away, leaving Glimmer with a lingering touch of the familiar. “You’re probably hungry from all that falling out of the sky. I’ll get you something to eat. And clothes. You’re naked. So, you need those.” Scorpia heads towards the door, “And don’t worry. I’ll take my time.” She leaves.

Naked, Glimmer thinks. She is, and with barely a thought, she flaps her wings, and forms around her a gown of solid shadows, one that leaves her arms and shoulder bare so that her new wings may be free. That’s not a simple spell, Glimmer realizes, after she has done it. To manifest matter, solid as the dress feels and not just an illusion, is the praxis of Mysticor’s elders. Such power; it should be horrifying, but Glimmer isn’t afraid. She feels so much, but not fear.

Glimmer looks to Catra, ears down, vertical slit pupils wide. But is she afraid of me, Glimmer ponders. No. Maybe. That look is something beyond fear. Wonder, more like. For first time in ages, she feels powerful, being looked on in such a way. 

This time expecting the dark echo that follows her voice, Glimmer asks, “I fell from the sky?”

Catra approaches, but wont dare site beside Glimmer on her bed, “You did. Or that’s what I heard. Something called a falling star hit the Fright Zone. They sent me to investigate the wrecked. I found you inside,” Catra stops to gesticulate the shape, “it was like an egg.”

“You’re telling me I brought myself back here.”

“That’s all I know.”

“But why?”

A pause. Catra desperately wants to tell her more, but knows nothing else. In a tone of failure, “That’s all I know.” 

Glimmer sighs, or tries to. It comes out as an otherworldly hiss. Back in the Fright Zone, she thinks, of course. Where else is there to go, besides this nightmare? At least here, she isn’t alone anymore. To Catra, tail tucked low, and ears still pointed down, she says, “I’m sorry I choked you. I was confused. You can sit.”

In a cautious, kitten-like way, Catra sneaks up to the bed, sits on it, and slowly shimmies to Glimmer’s side.

“You can touch me if you want. I can tell you want to.” Catra starts. She’s cute when she’s nervous, and to see her so is such a rarity. Ruthless, driven Catra.

With a quivering paw, Catra caresses Glimmer’s bare plump shoulder. “You feel the same,” She says.

“I’m still me. I think.” Glimmer studies her own hand, the purple tint in her skin, her blackened nails. It doesn’t look the same, but it still moves by her will. Her hand; her body. 

Catra has to know, “What happened to you?”

Glimmer flexes her wings, and Catra shivers. “Mom,” she says, for that’s the cut that hurt the deepest. She goes on, “It feels like a dream now, but I started to change, and they rejected me. And you. Bow made me certain you were dead. Bow.” Just saying his name pierces her heart with daggers of guilt. She hurt him. Her first friend, and she hurt him. Were they right? Is she a monster now?

“What about him,” asks Catra, absently rubbing the wound he left in her abdomen.

Glimmer shakes her head, “It was like, he grieved you. I thought he killed you. I thought, you set me free, and he killed you for it.”

A smirk creeps onto Catra’s lips, “He grieved me? He shot me in the belly, and then he felt bad about it. How sweet. But I don’t want his pity.”

“Pity? Right. All I wanted while I was here was to go home, and have my family back. But all that was there for me was was pity. I’m sorry.”

Catra flushes, “What are you saying sorry to me for?”

“You risked your life to let me go. You were shot, and they made it all for nothing.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Then why’d you do it?” 

At that, Catra’s lips curl, and she hunches defensively, “I didn’t do it for the reasons you think.”

Glimmer stares skeptically, and reaches out to stroke the chin of the growling feline, “And what do you mean by that?”

Catra’s face relaxes, but she keeps to her wary posture, “I didn’t do it because I felt bad. And I didn’t do it because it was right. We don’t have things like that in the Horde. We don’t have the luxury.”

Glimmer’s touch migrates down, to Catra’s belly through which Bow’s arrow pierced. She agrees, “You really don’t,” then, “but you did it anyway.” Catra’s cheeks shine pink even under her fur. Why is she afraid, Glimmer thinks, or is she just embarrassed? She thinks Catra should be proud.

One of Glimmer’s shadowy wings wraps around Catra’s tensed body, and the darkness that falls over her feels friendly and warm. Catra finds herself sinking from her pose, into Glimmer’s lap. She lays down her head down on Glimmer’s cushy thighs, and she feels like crying, but won’t let herself. Even as Glimmer begins to stroke her hair, her ears, her fur. 

Catra begins to wonder, is this what it’s like to be a child? One with a mother? She purrs. 

Glimmer’s haunting voice sounds over her thoughts. “When I was a slave,” she begins, “a cephaloid woman named Octavia visited me.”

Catra knows, and shudders into the comfort of Glimmer’s wing. “And she told you about me, right? About how I took her eye, and how she got revenge. We still aren’t even.”

That doesn’t matter to Glimmer. Not now. She asks, “But how did it happen? Adora said Shadow Weaver raised you side by side, like daughters. She’s Lord Hordak’s second in command. Why did she let that happen?”

“Let it happen? She made it happen. It was punishment. She said I was distracting her favorite; Adora. So she sent me to her Slave Brothel to teach me a lesson. I was only there for a few days. Maybe a week. Not like you.”

“How old were you? If you’re Adora’s age, then-”

“I was fourteen,” she admits, “but like I said; I wasn’t there long.”

“A little girl. And Adora never knew,” she says it as a fact, because of course she never knew. To report such a crime would be to show weakness not tolerated in the Horde.

“I’m fine, really. Now I am.” Catra shrinks deeper into the comfort of Glimmer’s wing, where it feels strange to ask, for she is the one coddled, “How about you?”

Glimmer takes her hand off Catra’s furry mane, and stares again into her palm, beyond her dyed skin, and into her flesh, which seems to writhe with darkness. “I don’t think I’m going to be okay anymore.”

Catra pulls herself off Glimmer’s lap, and sits up to look her in the face. She cannot think of anything to say; all she can do is stare into Glimmer’s eyes, each huge and empty as Despondos itself. “What’s going to happen to me now,” asks Glimmer, “when I fell, I felt so angry, but also, so free. The power was overwhelming. It hurt but it was real. Nothing had felt real in so long. I’m coming back to my senses now, and I just don’t know where, or if I can fit in.”

Clawed hands grasp Glimmer’s cheeks. “Isn’t it obvious,” Catra says. She’s very near smiling. “You belong here, with me.”

“Here?” Glimmer looks round at Catra’s dingy soldier’s dormitory. Where does she want to keep her? Under the mattress, like a dirty book? “We both know that will never work.”

Catra shakes her head, fangs starting to show as her smile encroaches, “Not in this room, but here. In the Fright Zone. With your new powers, we could-”

“You want me to join the Horde,” the reverb in Glimmer’s new voice kicks up, and Catra shivers. “The Horde ruined my life. They took my soul. I could still have my mom; my innocence.”

“You wouldn’t be the only Princess to join the Horde. Remember Entrapta? She was left behind just like you, and now she builds weapons for us. And Scorpia. She’s a Princess. That’s how we got into the Princess Prom.”

Glimmer growls, “They haven’t been through what I have.”

Catra nods, “No. You’re right. That’s true. But listen.” Catra drops her voice to a whisper, trying to calm the new rising wave of wrath from Glimmer. “Don’t you think the Princesses deserve to pay too? From here in the Fright Zone we could make that happen.”

The focus of Glimmer’s dark eyes drifts away, as her anger shifts to another target. “Betray Brightmoon?”

“They betrayed you first. This is what they deserve.”

“And what about the Horde?”

“Defeat Brightmoon and the Horde is our’s for the taking.”

“That sounds like revenge. That goes against everything I was ever taught.” But does that matter? Such a thought only goes to further illustrate how much Glimmer continues to lose. Her past is evaporating; her sweet memories turning bitter with resentment. 

Glimmer looks forward, to Catra, mismatched eyes heavy with waiting turning to worry. She’s a bad guy, an old and fading part of Glimmer thinks. Bow. Sweetest Bow said evil is a choice. Is this how that choice is made? Or is the choice a lie? May evil be but a role one is cast in, just as Glimmer was cast from the light of Brightmoon? Either way, this is the final threshold. She can fight the abyss that has claimed her heart, or at Catra’s side, master it. 

The tapping of chitin covered toes sounds towards Catra’s door, wrenching Glimmer back to reality. Scorpia busts through the door, and slams it behind her. Catra and Glimmer realize how close they have become. Near kissing, one may think. They pull away, and Scorpia props her back against the door. She whispers something frantically. It sounds like, “Hide.”

Which one of them, and why? Scorpia decides they are hesitating too long. She rushes to the bed, scoops up Glimmer in her claws, and tosses her beneath. It happens fast, but Scorpia, with her extreme might, is also capable of a gentle touch. She hangs Catra’s single blanket over the side of the bed, shielding her from view. Glimmer cannot see a thing, but she knows who is there; she recognizes the voice.

The door opens again. It makes no sound. Willed open, not touched. Shadow Weaver speaks, “Force Captain Scorpia, why did you run from me?”

“Because,” Scorpia agonizes, forced to lie, “Catra. She said she was hungry. So that’s why I brought her all these ration bars.” She brought a stack of them (for Glimmer), which she spreads out on the bed. Catra said she was really, really hungry. So I ran; I didn’t want to leave her waiting. And hungry. Right, Catra?”

Flatly, Catra answers, “Starving.”

Scorpia keeps going; she can’t help herself, “And the change of clothes. Um, I can explain that too. Catra wanted to inspect the new standard fatigues. She heard they’re really fashionable.”

Catra audibly sighs, and Shadow Weaver stops listening to Scorpia. “Catra,” she begins, “what are you doing here in bed? I thought you had been sent to investigate a disaster at a certain establishment.”

Catra shrugs, “I did, and I’m done. And the raid siren woke me up at the crack of dawn. I think I deserve a nap.”

“Your investigation is complete then?”

“That’s what I said.”

“Then what is it?”

“What?”

A tick as the Horde witch’s patience wanes, “What is your report? What happened to my Slave Brothel?”

Scorpia interjects, “I’m just gonna go, if that’s all right with everybody?” She does.

Catra clears her throat, “Something hit it. That’s all. Went right through the ceiling.”

Blankly, the witch goes on, “What a catastrophe. Was anyone hurt?”

After pretending to think about it first, Catra answers, “Yeah. That guy, Vultak. Looked like he suffocated under the rubble.”

“Oh the poor man. His family must devastated.”

Catra snorts a laugh, then passes it off as a sneeze.

“You said something hit the building, but you didn’t say what.” Silence; tense painful silence. “You know, I heard a strange rumor. It’s about a falling star that appeared over the Fright Zone just before the Slave Brothel was struck.”

“What’s a star?”

Their verbal dance continues, and all the while, Glimmer seethes beneath the bed. It’s her, whispers an increasingly familiar fragment of herself. Shadow Weaver is here. Glimmer feels her tenuous grip on her new power waver. 

Memories flash. The Black Garnet chamber; Glimmer bound by red thunder, sentenced to the Slave Brothel. Handed off to Vultak, and auctioned off, while she watches. The crack of her whip, and the drip of blood. Control it; this thought Glimmer clings to, because she must.

Looking at her claws, Catra suggests, “Maybe it was one of those new heli- things they’ve been testing at the air field. One of them could’ve crashed.”

Catra’s dorm room falls to darkness. All light is swallowed, and then comes a scream, so distorted by void and hate it is unrecognizable as human, “Shadow Weaver!” The claws of Glimmer’s etherial wings extend and take hold of the Horde witch. Her eldritch grip is tight, fueled by rage.

Still, Shadow Weaver speaks calmly, “Princess Glimmer. I knew I could find you here.”

Her voice overwhelmingly loud, and crackling with distortion, Glimmer howls, “Then coming here was a mistake. I am going to tear you apart. Slowly.”

“And you’ve fallen. Such a magnificent sight. Beyond even my greatest hopes for you, little Princess. This is my gift to the world; a true fallen angel. Tell me, how does it feel to give in to darkness?”

The wings of darkness close in, “I will show you how it feels.”

“And that is where I will have to stop you.” Little tendrils of void sink into Glimmer’s wings. Gently, they pull her grip away, releasing the witch. “The shadow school of magic is where I am mistress. The Spell of Attainment gifted me only an imitation of what comes to angel when she falls, but I have had longer than you have lived to hone this magic. Your new power is vast; too vast for you to comprehend.” Glimmer’s wings recede, overpowered by Shadow Weaver, and now it is the fallen Princess who is bound my magic, held aloft and choked. “To think,” Shadow Weaver gloats, “of all that could be done with my own specimen of fallen angelkind. I will enjoy the harvest of your power.” Her dark touch pushes deeper into Glimmer, beyond her body, into her mind. She cries out in pain, as the witch hums, delighted.

Of all things, a ration bar, still wrapped in cellophane, smacks Shadow Weaver on the side of the face. Thrown it was with such true aim, it knocks the red mask off the witch’s face. Overcome with shame, Shadow Weaver covers with her hands her deformity, the result of her reckless hunger for power, and for a moment, her shadowy chains let go. 

Instantly, Glimmer teleports, and the pull and pulse of her her spell sweeps through Catra’s room like a typhoon, throwing Shadow Weaver against the wall. The blow stuns her, but her senses do come back quickly. She notices in the mess of the Force Captain’s dormitory, her mask. She puts it on, and remembering the honorless blow that made her lose her prize, calls in rage, “Catra.” In the corner of Shadow Weaver’s eye, she sees a tail slip through the door. Gone.

Shadow Weaver takes a moment to adjust her mask. Just a delay, she tells herself. She opens up her communicator, and sends out a top priority message, “Force Captain Catra is wanted for treason. All personal at all levels of the Horde are to engage in the search. I want her alive, and I want her now.” Alive, Shadow Weaver smiles behind her mask, how naughty my second daughter has been. She must be punished. She will be declawed, defanged; I will see every tendon in her body cut if I have to; Catra will never leave the Slave Brothel of the Fright Zone.

In the ruin of the Slave Brothel,

Eurypteri sips her soup. She’s bored. After the ruckus of the night before, and the tumult of dreams that followed, the Brothel has been shut down on a Force Captain’s orders. Until further notice, they say. That means no customers, no lovers, no hooch. For how long? Eurypteri mopes. 

A sudden pressure rears up behind her, accompanied by an otherworldly sound. She turns to the sight of a monster. Another dream, she wonders. Perhaps this is all a dream. Perhaps she’ll wake and the Slave Brothel will still be open for business. After all, how can something fall from an empty sky?

The monster has come on wings of darkness, which part revealing a face, soft and young. She knows that face. “Glimmer,” she says, “but they told me you died? That you slit your wrists and bled out in the showers.”

“Eurypteri,” Glimmer speaks, “I need your help.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was a little tricky for me to write. She-Ra has a lot of funny characters and this is not a funny story. Still I tried to keep Scorpia's antics light, and let Catra have a little sass. 
> 
> I imagine about two chapters left in this fic; a climax and then an epilogue. And again, thank you al for your comments.


	17. The Purge of the Horde

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The future of the Horde is decided among the rubble of the Slave Brothel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> T/W for extreme violence, including genital mutilation, as well as rape and abusive language.

Chapter Sixteen - The Purge of the Horde

It doesn’t take all that much strength to snap a neck. Just a jerk at the wrong angle, and the spinal nerve ruptures. Life immediately desists. Catra sets down the body of yet another faceless Horde Trooper. Shadow Weaver has flooded the streets with them. If she had any regards for her soldier’s lives, she would have sent them in teams. Not so easy to pick off that way. But Shadow Weaver wants Catra bad, and she wants Catra now, so she sends out the troops like a drag net. 

Her strategy is working. Disguised again in her pilfered armor and tattered cape, Catra can’t hide her tail. Shadow Weaver’s flunkies keep finding her. She’s beat them all so far, even killing this last one, but she’s getting tired. The Fright Zone has been on lockdown for almost a whole day, with all attention turned to catching her. Almost a whole day, no sleep, no food, not even a moment to sit still and breathe. 

They’re going to catch her, Catra realizes. It’s just a matter of time. So what then? Give up? Never. Not with what torment awaits her as Shadow Weaver’s punishment. Catra would rather go down fighting. But maybe she doesn’t have to. Running, hiding, fighting; this isn’t working. But what if she had help? An ally here in the Fright Zone. It’s a risk; it means leaving the underbelly of the Fright Zone and going to the surface. But the alternative is certain defeat. She’ll take the risk. She has to find Scorpia.

But how? The first thing Catra did after fleeing her room in the Force Captains’ Barracks was destroy her communicator. And even if she had it, what would she do? Just call Scorpia and hope no one else was there to listen in? No she has to think. Where’s Scorpia likely to be in all of this? She showed herself out after Shadow Weaver stormed her room. Shadow Weaver might suspect Scorpia was covering for her and Glimmer, but then again, Scorpia’s always acting weird about something. So, Catra’s best guess; she’s out with the rest of the Force Captains, hunting for her, and knowing Scorpia, hoping to find her, so she could hide her. A good friend, Catra thinks. Better than Adora, but she’s known that for a long time now. 

Catra wraps her tail around her waist, and then pulls her cloak tight. She has to go back. Scorpia could be anywhere, but one place she’s sure not to be is the Force Captains’ Barracks. No one will be there. Not while the hunt is on for the traitorous Force Captain. It’ll be empty, and Scorpia’s room, with her diary, will be unguarded. Scorpia may even have left a note in case she came back. It’s a long shot, but it’s all Catra has. It’ll be a long walk back to the surface of the Fright Zone. She starts now.

There are a lot of dark corridors and passages all through Horde territory. So much, the soldiers loyal to Shadow Weaver have to be spread thin to cover them all. Catra resorts to the sewers for a long leg of her journey, and even there, troopers wander with flashlights, searching. Closer to the Barracks, near the capitol of the Fright Zone, Horde troopers are easier to avoid. Catra feels almost conspicuous in her soldier’s uniform, among civilians who care not if a rogue Force Captain is brought to justice. Catra must have been right; they don’t expect her to go home. She hopes she’s right.

Catra’s feeling bold, but not so bold as to use the front door. She squeezes into the narrow alley separating the wings of the citadel that contain the Force Captains’ Barracks, and on her feline claws, climbs to a window she knows to have a broken lock. She’s in, and for a moment, she stands still on the blank grey linoleum floor, waiting for the brutal law of the Horde to come down on her. No one’s there. I was right, she tells herself. Unguarded; so far, so good.

For want of quiet, Catra ditches her stolen uniform, and on the soft pads of her feet, moves soundlessly towards Scorpia’s room. All the while, her ears are cocked, hunting for any sound at all. None. This is beginning to feel too easy.

Catra didn’t think the passcode to Scorpia’s room would be hard to guess, and it isn’t. One, one, one, one, and one. A green light and a pleasant beep, then the door slides open. Catra enters, and looks first to Scorpia’s desk, where she first discovered her fellow Force Captain’s journal. There, she finds not the diary, but the woman herself. Scorpia sitting over her desk, back turned. Even better, Catra thinks.

She approaches quietly, and begins to whispers, “Scorpia, keep your voice down. It’s me. I need your help.”

Scorpia turns around. She’s crestfallen. Something’s wrong, so wrong. “Sorry, Wildcat. They got to me first thing after the call went out looking for you. I didn’t have a chance.”

Catra’s eyes shoot wide. She tries to turn around, but the end of a shock baton jams into her back. Electrical agony erupts through her body, and she collapses on the floor. She’s left convulsing, while a flood of stomping boots sound around her. Catra struggles to see through the pain. Above her stands Force Captain Rattlor wielding a spent shock baton. He grins, as a swarm of Horde troopers flood into the hallway, blocking any escape from Scorpia’s room. And then, as if no worse could come, the shadows coalesce on the far side of the dorm. Shadow Weaver appears.

Rattlor turns up his snout to the Horde witch, “Got her good, didn’t I, Madame Ssshadow Weaver?”

The witch stoops, reaching out a grey hand to Catra’s face. She feels the touch, and snarls. Shadow Weaver assures Rattlor, “Very good. She’s still awake. I want her to know what happens next.: A cruel satisfied pause, and then, “Force Captain Scorpia. This is just the beginning of what happens to those who betray the Horde. Who betray me. I have plans for Catra in my re-opened Slave Brothel. Her sorrow will be legendary, unless you are willing to perform her execution right now. So what will you do, scorpion Princess?”

There is hate on Scorpia’s face. Catra has never seen Scorpia hate before, but the hate she sees right now is exceptional in intensity, like imploding star. And even then, it is nothing compared to the sorrow she wears as well. “You know I can’t,” says Scorpia, defeated.

“You’re right. I knew you couldn’t.” In her palm, Shadow Weaver conjures a tiny shadow servant, and sends it rushing towards Scorpia’s face. Her eyes turn blank, and her mouth foams. She drops to the ground beside Catra. 

“Ssshadow Weaver,” hisses Rattlor, for even he is shocked by her cruelty to one of their own, “don’t you think that wasss a little, um-”

“Princess Scorpia was always too weak for the Horde. But unlike Catra, she isn’t a complete disappointment. She just needs another round of reconditioning.”

“Recondisssioning?”

“A simple mind wipe. Just like the one I gave her when she was a little girl, and wouldn’t stop crying about her mommies. She watched me kill one, and the other; well, you know where she is.”

Rattlor knows well, and wags his rattling tail. 

“But first,” Shadow Weaver addresses, not only Force Captain Rattlor, but the surrounding security squad, “we have an angel to catch, and the perfect bait. Take these traitors away. We’re going back to the Slave Brothel; it is there we set our trap.”

Rattlor grins, and to Catra, still writhing near paralyzed on the ground, he delivers another blow with his shock baton. Her world goes dark. 

Shadow Weaver sets her stage among the ruins of the Slave Brothel, where the weird winding architecture has collapsed in such a way as to form a crude amphitheater between the broken wings of the building. There, she puts her troopers to fast work, constructing a trap for an angel. 

Out of the heaped scrap, they build a platform, welded together, and supported unevenly by concrete blocks, and gas pipes. It is beneath this platform where Shadow Weaver places the keystone of her plan; a shard chiseled from the Black Garnet, carrying it’s primal power. From there, the witch expands its power, drawing a swirling rune in red dust across the rough steel platform. 

At the center of the platform, Shadow Weaver lays Catra down, and around the ring of it, she lines up her troopers. It is they who hold onto Scorpia, whose mind is still jammed. The witch will keep her as secondary bait. Secondary to Catra.

Shadow Weaver snaps her fingers, “Wake her up,” she orders. Rattlor kneels down, and snaps a capsule of smelling salts under Catra’s nose. The burst of toxic fumes startles Catra to consciousness, but her eyelids are sore, heavy. They open slowly, revealing a blurry sight. Two Lizardmen. No, just one; Rattlor. And no longer is he the lone Force Captain serving Shadow weaver. He is joined by a hairy friend, Grizzlor. 

Catra pulls herself to her feet, surprised that she is allowed to do so. “Where am I?” She steadies herself, and notices the open sky above the Fright Zone. She notices too the heavy clouds have shifted in hue from murky yellow to ominous purple, since Glimmer’s fall. Glimmer. Catra understands what this is.

“You have to stop this,” she growls at the witch, hovering and, drunk on stolen magic, “I’m the one who betrayed you. Leave her out of this.”

Shadow Weaver lowers herself to Catra, “You did betray me, and for that you will suffer. But you? You’re just bait for my true prize.” Catra hisses. Since she was a child, Catra’s turned to atavism when she can’t get her way. “Why did you do it? You who I raised like my own daughter? I gave you so much; it was my lessons that gave you the drive to become Force Captain. And then you threw it all away for a spoiled Princess. I suppose I was too lenient with you. It was my soft heart that lost me my girls. But what I lose in you and Adora, I gain so much more in your sweet slave. When she is mine, I will flay her soul from her body until all that is left of her essence is a source of power for me. And no longer will I serve anyone. Not Mysticor, or Hordak. I shall be Queen of all Etheria, and you will languish in my Slave Brothel, and not even in death will you see your angel again.”

A roar. Not a hiss, but the roar of a lioness from Catra, as she bares her teeth and claws, prepared to resist that fate until she drowns in blood.

“Rattlor, Grizzlor,” Shadow Weaver, commands her Force Captains.

Grizzlor steps forward, grinning, “What you want we do to her, Shadow Weaver?”

Simply, “Whatever you want.” 

“Gladly,” Grizzlor cracks his knuckles and turns to his fellow Force Captain, “Come on Rattlor. Let’s have some fun with this kitty.”

With a cacophonous shake of his tail, Rattlor begins eagerly, aiming a swipe of his claws at Catra’s chest. Even dazed, her feline reflexes let Catra easily dodge this strike, but this isn’t a fair fight. A swipe of his tail, and Catra backs too close to Grizzlor. He grabs her from behind, and lifts her off the ground. His grip threatens to crack her ribs, and in the shock of pain, Rattlor winds up his tail again, and cruelly slaps her right across the cheek.The welt splits her skin; the pain is shocking, incredible, but Catra’s instinct to survive is strong. Her strong waist muscles allow her to wriggle out of Grizzlor’s grip, and in a second, she slithers behind him, and rakes her claws down his back. His uniform tears; blood runs. 

Again, Rattlor tries to strike with his tail, and Catra ducks, then charges. She plants her foot in the soft underbelly of the snakeman, and he flinches back with a cough. It’s a complex dance, but Catra manages to hold her own against her opponents, both larger and stronger than she is, for a while.

Catra counters yet another strike from Grizzlor’s brutish fists, and though she thinks she’s a safe distance from Rattlor, he surprises her. With a hiss, he spits a caustic organic liquid into her face. It’s disgusting, and it burns. Catra loses her balance for just a second, and Grizzlor kicks her hard in the back. The blow throws her off her feet with enough force to send her clear through the circle of Horde Troopers lining the platform, but it doesn’t. Rattlor deflects her with another cruel tail-whip, which flings her in an arc, up high, and then down hard onto her back. When she lands, she thinks she hears bones crunch. 

Her dual opponents leave her planted on the ground for a second, and then Grizzlor reaches down and takes a handful of her hair. He lifts her up, and she goes to slash at his wrist, but rapidly, he pushes her back down, slamming her face into the scrap metal ground. He does that a couple more times for the sake of cruelty itself, and then he takes Catra by her arms, and holds her in front of him, presenting her exposed front to Force Captain Rattlor. He licks his scaly lips, and lashes out. His tail whips her across her belly, knocking out her air. She struggles but her struggling feels weak and aimless. She’s losing her nerve; they’re beating it out of her. 

Rattlor digs his reptilian claws into Catra’s fur, and rips down. He cuts not just her skin, but her uniform, baring her body; her tight muscular belly, her breasts. He cackles, and looks to Shadow Weaver, “We can do whatever we want?”

Shadow Weaver assures him, knowingly, “Whatever you want.”

The scaly hands of Rattlor go to his belt buckle, as he says, “Hey, Grissslor, lay her down for me. I’ve always wanted to try this little cunt.”

Grizzlor laughs, and drops her to the ground. Catra falls onto her back, with her legs splayed out. Rattlor kneels; trousers now undone. Grizzlor goads, “I had her once. When she was just a little kid. She was so tight, I thought she was gonna break. You should’ve heard her scream.”

This amuses Rattlor greatly. He laughs a horrible reptilian laugh, as he pulls out his cock, engorged and purple, stuck out from a vertical slit in his red scales. The Horde troopers around the platform take notice. Some of them whoop and cheer, while others just leer hungrily through the vizors of their helmets. 

Rattlor leans over Catra, and runs his forked tongue up her chest, over her neck, and then up her face. She barely stirs. He smiles, and takes hold of her thighs. The pants of her uniform rip easily, and Rattlor descends. 

Catra has more strength left than she let on. She strikes quickly; too fast for anyone to see. There’s a bewildered moment where no one, not even Catra, is sure what happened. There’s screams; shrill, hissing screams. And blood; torrents of it. It’s everywhere, gushing. And there’s something lying still on the ground in a red puddle of its own; a slab of meat. It’s Rattlor’s penis. Catra sheared it off with one keen slash of her claws.

Rattlor’s screams turn to cries. Thunderous desperate sobs. “Help me,” he cries, “the bleeding. Oh the bleeding! Make it ssstop!”

Battered and broken, Catra manages a smirk. Even certain of her near and violent death; she is glad to have been able to inflict this vengeance. 

Among the men of Shadow Weaver’s trooper entourage, stomachs turn. More than one hardened soldier, cheering just a minute before, vomits into his helmet. Grizzlor though, only frowns. Rattlor is dying in a hurry. He has maybe another thirty seconds before blood loss kills him. Grizzlor decides even that is too long to leave him dickless and crying. With one stomp of his broad bestial foot, he pops Rattlor’s head like a grape, ending his suffering.

Careful now, Grizzlor scoops up Catra by the fabric of her ripped uniform. She doesn’t scratch; was that the last of her strength? Grizzlor isn’t so sure; he remains on guard. He pulls Catra’s face to his own. Still, she smirks, her little white fangs, glinting. Grizzlor isn’t so pleased. Rather, water pools in his eyes. He sheds a tear, “You just killed my best friend. I can’t kill you dead enough, but I’m gonna try.”

“Do it,” demands Catra, “and make it slow. I want to feel it.”

The sky cracks open. A pulse of energy spreads the ever present clouds, creating a portal to the empty sky. And in the center of this hole, appears an orb of perfect darkness, like a negative sun over the Fright Zone. The orb descends. 

Grizzlor drops Catra to the ground, and looks up the sky. Shadow Weaver announces, “She’s here. Troopers, ready your weapons. Blast her out of the sky.” The witch’s troopers try. They set their batons to kill, and aim them towards the falling bubble. Bolts of green lightning climb through the air, surrounding it, but it continues downward unfazed. Some of the troopers lose their nerve at the coming of this invincible, incomprehensible enemy, but more of them trust their commander, and keep shooting, goading the orb downward to the platform. 

Amongst the volleys of lightning, the orb sprouts wings. Massive and dark, orbiting the object like rings around a giant planet. It is in the center of this twisting shadow, the orb gives way, and from it, Glimmer manifests. Catra’s smug smirk finally falls. “Glimmer,” she screams, “leave me! Save yourself! It’s a trap!” There is no possible way for her voice to carry; not over the fire of the soldiers, and their screams of terror. 

Grizzlor notices Catra moving, and still he is wary of her. “Not so fast, kitten,” he says, standing over her, “we still got a lot to settle.” What is he going to do? Avenge his friend now, before the trap snaps shut? He doesn’t have the chance. Shadows strike from the fallen angel’s wings. They fall on the troopers in waves of madness and terror, sending them running wild. A beam of dark falls on Grizzlor too, consuming his mind, sparing Catra, but Glimmer cannot help herself.

Among the chaos of her descent, Glimmer’s feet touch down on the platform, and Shadow Weaver, hovering calmly through it all, smiles behind her crimson mask. The shard of the Black Garnet senses another Princess, and it, and the rune extending its power cut through Glimmer’s darkness with a harsh red light. Red thunder runs through her body, and drags her down, flat against the scrap. Her wings, magnificent and monstrous, feel unbearable heavy. Glimmer is paralyzed; crushed under the weight of her own powerlessness. 

The havoc around them continues. Insane Horde Troopers run in circles, screaming, clawing off their uniforms, their own skin and flesh. They are all but routed, leaving poor mind-wiped Scorpia unguarded in a pool of her own drool. Shadow Weaver remains cool. She floats over Glimmer, bound by the Black Garnet, just as she was in the aftermath of the Princess Prom. Shadow Weaver runs a clawed finger up Glimmer’s chin, and whispers, “So much suffering, and still, you get nothing. At least, this way you won’t be completely useless.” A burst of power channeled through the Black Garnet props Glimmer up, so that she may face Shadow Weaver’s cold mask. “My marvel. My masterpiece. You are as much my daughter as Adora was, and Catra. But where I failed with them, I have succeeded with you. You a, a being of light, fallen to shadow. So much like myself, and soon we shall be together forever. Thank you, little Princess.”

Glimmer coughs; her lungs feel near collapse under the weight of her wings. Bravely though, she speaks, “You’re right. I am like you now. I’ve found power in darkness and just for that, my family abandoned me, just like Mysticor did to you. And, you did succeed with me. More than you know.”

The power of a fallen angel is too great even for the Black Garnet to completely cancel. Straining against the impossible weight, Glimmer flexes a wing, and calls forth her teleportation spell. Catra, collapsed and covered in blood, breathes relieved. At least Glimmer has escaped. Hasn’t she?

No. Glimmer is still here, held by red lightning. Her spell was not to teleport herself; it was a summoning. A new figure has joined the tumultuous scene upon the platform. A woman of grand stature, and the blackest hair. A scorpioni, segmented tail, chitinous claws. She stands dazed. She doesn’t know how she came to be here, or why. Neither does Shadow Weaver. She suspects a trick, but doesn’t understand. She turns to this woman, recognizing one of her slaves. Beautiful Eurypteri of the Scorpion Kingdom. As the witch begins to understand, she readies a spell to blast this newcomer from existence, but as she shifts focus, she loosens control over Glimmer. She can’t have that; she may lose her forever. All she can do is watch what next unfolds. That’s all any of them can do.

In her daze, Eurypteri trips over her long silken robes, and falls forward. She lands facing the direction of a fellow scorpioni woman. One as exceptionally tall as she is. She’s dressed in a Force Captain’s uniform, and her silver is cropped short, like that of a soldier. Silver hair, like she had. And those features; long and narrow, like that of her wife’s side of the family. For it was her wife’s own brother who provided the sperm that conceived their daughter. It’s her, that daughter; dearest Scorpia. Grown up strong and hardened by war. This must be a dream, Eurypteri tells herself. It’s a dream she has often, but never like this, seeing her daughter as a woman. She must enjoy this dream while it lasts; she goes to her child.

Scorpia looks so near death, and Eurypteri thinks she maybe. This could be a nightmare, after all. She isn’t. Stunned, Scorpia’s mind has been set to reboot, and Shadow Weaver means to go deeper into her consciousness later. Erase this; rewrite that. This in-between state is to keep her quiet. But she wont be; not now with that face hovering above her won. Her lips move, “Mama?” But it can’t be her, right. Mama and Mom didn’t want her. They let her grandfather, the last king of the scorpioni give her up to the Horde to fight as yet another soldier. Right?

In her state, Scorpia sees through those memories, like they are graffiti washed off another story. Shadow Weaver. She killed Mom, and threw Mama to her soldiers to rape and abuse. Shadow Weaver. 

It happens instantaneously. Scorpia’s full strength and speed propel her across the platform, and the neck of Shadow Weaver finds itself between a pair of hard jagged pincers. Scorpia grits her teeth and squeezes. Shadow Weaver can’t even beg. Her throat is crushed, her larynx ruptures. Arteries fold, vertebrae crack, spinal fluids leak. And then the blades of Scorpia’s pincers clack together, and Shadow Weaver’s head rolls across the floor.

Silence at last. The troopers have all fled, and the buzzing of the Black Garnet shard quiets, as it no longer has a mistress to direct it. Glimmer is free. Catra is wounded, but will live. Scorpia has one parent back. It takes a moment for it all to sink in, but could this be victory? Or better, a happy ending? Glimmer takes her battered Catra into her wings, while Scorpia’s bloodlust depletes, leaving her with a mother. They stay that way, in pairs, for a long time. They stay that way until a rumble sounds through the ground.

A tank of the greatest caliber rolls up to the ruins of the Slave Brothel. Its gun points down at the platform. With just a look from Glimmer, the shadows stir, ready to destroy, but then the top of the tank opens, and from it rises the dark lord of the Horde. Hordak, and he’s clapping. “Force Captain Catra,” he calls, confidently, “what a show that was.”

Catra coughs up some blood, and growls. He can see Glimmer, but if Catra has a breath left, she won’t let him take her. 

He meets her growl with a laugh, “And it looks like I’m in need for a new second in command.”

Catra groans, “I thought I was a traitor.”

“In my Horde, it is the strongest who decides that. So no, you haven’t betrayed me. You have only purged weakness, and I believe a good purge is necessary for a mighty empire to grow. You did well Catra. Come home, and rule with me.”

“But,” Catra looks up to glaring Glimmer, still holding her in her wings.

Hordak shakes his head, “I see no Princess. That is a goddess.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter will be the last. The epilogue.


	18. Epilogue - Queen Glimmer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Glimmer and Catra go to the opera.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> T/W for rape.

Epilogue - Queen Glimmer

In Brightmoon,

Adora finds a grieving Queen. “I knew you’d be here,” she says, opening the door to Glimmer’s old room. It’s been returned to the way Glimmer had it when she was a little girl, with the bed suspended from the ceiling, and the sparkling purple curtains open to a bright sun blessed day.

Angella turns, “Today’s her birthday. Of course I’m here.” She moves a wing, revealing Glimmer’s old bedside table, on which is set a pink frosted cupcake, holding a single candle. It sits between the Queen and Kowl, the adorable plush of a fantastical owl beast.

Adora lays a hand on the Queen’s shoulder, “I miss her too.” Angella touches that hand, and tries to smile, but only tears come. “And I’ll never stop missing her.”

“Thank you, Adora. For everything.” Queen Angella lets the tears flow, and Adora stays with her. “I don’t know what I would have done if not for you and Bow.”

Adora understands. Since the Fall, as they call it, Angella has all but adopted her departed daughter’s friends. Bow yes, who now wears a golden mask over half his face to hide his deformity from the younger recruits to the Grand Rebellion, which he now valiantly leads. And Adora too; her perhaps more, for unlike Bow, Adora never had true parents, just a sadistic witch who very nearly broke her spirit, who succeeded in breaking the spirit of her first love. Poor Catra; a lost soul, just like what’s become of Glimmer.

“So long as we keep fighting the Horde, we’re honoring her memory,” Adora assures the Queen.

Angella agrees, “And someday, soon I hope, we shall slay the monster she has become. Only then can her soul be saved.” 

In the Fright Zone,

Catra has been gifted the Majordomo’s Suite, a grand wing of the Fright Zone’s governing citadel reserved for Hordak’s own second in command. Years ago, she cleared out Shadow Weaver’s arcane junk, and replaced it with tapestries in purple and red, and artifacts of the fallen magicat civilization, recovered as the Horde expands its influence throughout Etheria. 

It is in a dark hallway, lit by green flame held in black braziers, Catra waits for her wife to finish dressing. Catra herself is already dressed. It didn’t take her long; she is still a soldier, and soldiers wear uniforms, and tonight is a perfect chance to show off her newest official outfit. A low cut red body suit, with black armor padding her shoulders and offering a single sleeve. She looks fierce, mature, and dominant. 

Glimmer emerges from their bedchamber, and Catra melts. In a silk gown and fur stole, she floats forward out on her wings of darkness. Her purple hair is sheared on one side, and slicked back, and from her ears hang black pearls. She is the image of dark opulence, of the beauty found in malevolence. The eyes of Catra, mismatched blue and yellow, meet those of Glimmer, blacked out, and embellished by thick make-up. They appear huge, alien, mesmerizing. Catra comes up just before her wife, and drops to her knees. She pushes her face into Glimmer’s belly, and nuzzles it, cherishing what’s inside. Glimmer is pregnant; not far along but just beginning to show through the flowing silk of her robes. Glimmer strokes Catra’s ears, and she purrs. 

Their child began as a clone of Glimmer, altered by sorcery and technology express feline traits and features. The magicat race will be resurrected through this royal bloodline, for ultimately, this is the Brightmoon heir Shadow Weaver promised herself. Now never to have. No matter what happens in Brightmoon; if Angella with her immortality begins another family, Glimmer will always be first, and her daughter, their daughter, will always be true heir to Brightmoon’s Runestone. So now the Horde fights, not just for conquest of Brightmoon, but for the pride and honor of its rightful Queen.

“My Queen,” whispers Catra into Glimmer’s soft body.

She looks up, and sees Glimmer with a playful smile across her lips. “You all right down there?”

“I’m amazing,” Catra stands, “you’re amazing.” They kiss.

“Are you ready to go?”

Catra mock groans, “Do we have to?”

“Tonight’s the big night. Everyone will be there. And besides, it’ll be good for the Horde.”

Catra smiles warmly, raising her fist, “For the Horde.”

Glimmer agrees, “For the Horde.”

A chauffeur waits them up just outside of the Majordomo’s Suite. He gets out to open the car door for the Horde’s second in command and her royal wife. Uniform standards have relaxed in the years since Shadow Weaver’s death; the chauffeur is dressed not as a solider, but in a slim well fit suit. Catra and Glimmer enter the car, hand in hand. The chauffeur blushes stunned by beauty. His reaction is noticed. As Catra and Glimmer settle into the back seat giggling to each other, the flushed cheeks of the driver reflecting in his rear view window. Glimmer calls up to him, “Up for driving?”

He puts the vehicle in drive, and answers, “Of course your majesty. Honored to serve such charming ladies, is all.”

After Catra’ usurpation of Shadow Weaver’s position, Lord Hordak’s attention was brought to the existence of Slave Brothel. He requested Catra deliver a report on it, which she did. Catra kept it brief, focusing on the rates of infection among both the slaves and the Horde citizens who visited it. Hordak was disgusted, agreeing with Catra’s conclusion that the establishment posed a health hazard to all the Fright Zone. He had it demolished. Not for a moment was it reopened after Glimmer’s fall, and the slaves were distributed among the Horde’s various resettlement programs. 

Without the Slave Brothel, the need for leisure it fulfilled was left empty. And though it took some prodding of the Horde’s alien Lord, he did eventually allow for the diversion of funds to a new department; the Cultural Endowment for the Fright Zone. Construction of their first major project has just recently finished over the foundation of the demolished Slave Brothel, and tonight is its grand opening. 

A reporter and his camera crew have been assigned to the entrance as part of another new initiative to grow the Horde, not just military power, but as a nation. He and his crew begin recording as they await the very important persons, “Tonight marks the opening of the Fright Zone’s first Op-e-ra House, and yes you heard that right, folks. Our glorious Lord of darkness and power has at last brought art and culture to the Fright Zone, and as you can see the people are loving it.” The camera operator pans to the crowds gathered in front of the Opera House, roped off to either side of a long red carpet. They don’t even have tickets; they’re just amazed the place exists, and want to see it for themselves. 

The report continues, “This fine establishment here is the would not be possible without the rise of an exciting new generation of Horde leaders. These bright, and (dare I say it?) beautiful young women, accepting defectors Etheria’s native royals, have in just a few short years ushered in a revolution of national development here in the Fright Zone. Here’s one now. Let’s see if we can get a few words with her.”

A tank has parked in front of the Opera House, and from the top of it leaps Scorpia, landing with a boom on the red carpet, inspiring cheers from the onlooking crowds. The reporter runs up to her with his crew, and stands on his tip toes, trying to reach her with his microphone, “Force Captain Scorpia, they say you are the mightiest warrior in all the Horde. Would you agree?”

Scorpia notices she’s being recorded, and blushes. “Aw shucks,” she says.

She’s freezing up. The reporter tries to keep things moving with another question, “So what do you expect from tonight’s show.”

She looks into the camera and smiles, “An opera. Whatever that is.”

The reporter laughs, as Scorpia marches down the carpet to the entrance, “A true hero of the Horde, folks.”

After Scorpia’s tank departs, a large many-legged robot takes its place. Entrapta is sitting on top of it, holding reins as if the spherical machine were a horse. She swings herself off her creation by her prehensile twin-tails, and the reporter rushes to meet her too, “Science Officer Entrapta.”

He doesn’t get a chance to ask her a question; she grabs hold the camera with hair, and staring into the lens asks, “Ooh, what’s this?”

The reporter tries to squeeze himself into view, “Well, you ought to know, ma’am. It’s based off some of your designs. Much of the Horde’s scientific advances are. You should be proud.”

“Oh yeah,” squawks Entrapta, chuffed, “good job me.” She begins to walk off. The reporter tries to chase after her.

“Wait,” he calls, “have you any comments on the rumors surrounding you and Lord Hordak? Is it possible that love can bloom, even for our fearsome cyborg alien dictator?” She’s gone. He looks into the camera, “We may never know.”

Entrapta’s bot departs on its own accord, and replacing it, parks a low dark limousine. The reporter springs to action, “Could it be,” he asks the camera. The door of the vehicle opens, and outsteps a fiercely uniformed feline, who then helps out a beauty, winged and colorful, like a butterfly. “It is,” the reporter exclaims, “Majordomo Catra has arrived with her lovely bride. None other than the Fallen Angel herself, the Fright Zone’s very own Matron of Darkness; Glimmer, the true Queen of Brightmoon.” He approaches, “Ladies, a few words, if you please.”

Catra snarls, raising her claws at the camera, “Watch where you’re pointing that thing, creep.”

She puts out a protective arm over Glimmer’s belly, but Glimmer then takes it in her own grip, stroking the fur of her one bare shoulder. “Careful sweetie,” she says, “you’ll scare the kids watching at home.”

Catra breathes out. She’s calm. She’s cool. She’s great with kids. 

The reporter jams his face in front of the camera, “You saw it here first folks. Beauty taming the beast.” Before they go, the reporter asks a single question, “Boy or girl?”

Glimmer lays a hand over her womb, smiling. A ridiculous question; the child having begun as a clone. She answers, “Happy. I hope.”

Inside the Opera House, Glimmer and Catra take their seats in a private balcony, high above the rest of the audience. At the other side of the house, they spy a mirroring balcony, where Lord Hordak himself, having journeyed out of the cloister of his sanctum, now sits. Entrapta’s up there with him. Glimmer smiles.

The lights go down, and the show starts. The curtain rises on Princess Eurypteri, who was known for her lovely singing in the waning years of the Scorpion Kingdom. Glimmer floats away on her music, but Catra hasn’t yet learned the value of high culture. She grows distracted, and her hands wander to her datapad, to something she finds more entertaining. It is the Force Captain’s roster, and the status reports on some former members. 

Force Captain Octavia - Status: Convicted of trafficking contraband goods. Sent to Beast island.

Force Captain Grizzlor - Status: Incurably insane.

Force Captain Mantenna - Status: Demoted to front lines. Killed in action.

Catra isn’t responsible for that one. Entrapta’s innovation in the field of computerized optics rendered the mutant’s remarkable vision obsolete to the Horde. But here is another development Catra may have had a hand in.

Wanted - Any information leading to the recovery of Modulok’s second head. He isn’t the same without it. 

Catra snorts, a sound drowned by Eurypteri’s velvety alto. What a wondrous show.

That night,

The walls of the Slave Brothel rise again, and Glimmer’s still there. She’s never left. A long day of waiting has passed. Glimmer’s so tired. All she wants is to sleep, sleep forever, sleep her life away, but she can’t. Last night, an especially cruel Horde trooper dragged her from her degrading display on the Floor and into one of the back rooms. The rape that followed was brutal. She screamed. She bled. And when it was over, it was all she could do to just breathe. 

Right now, Glimmer isn’t anywhere close to recovered, and a new night of torment looms. A door breaks open, and there stands Shadow Weaver, a barbed whip coiled around her hand. She leads an entire platoon on faceless Horde soldiers, their cocks swollen with sadistic want. “Little Princess,” the witch says, “you haven’t yet begun to learn your place in my Horde.”

Glimmer screams until she is awake in her bed in the Majordomo’s Suite.

Fuzzy arms hold her tight. “I’m here,” Catra whispers, “it’s okay. I’m here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who's been reading, and kudo-ing, and commenting through the process of writing this fic. 
> 
> I was inspired to move this story in the direction it eventually went by my love of the show's villains. I think bad guys deserve a happy ending once in a while.


End file.
